


leave no vault unturned

by delurks



Series: beyond the borderlands [18]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games), The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe, Body Horror, Borderlandscast, Denial, Depression, Don't copy to other sites, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, Gen, Guns, Happy Ending, Immortality, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Meet the Family, Memes, Mentions of Cancer, Mutual Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-17 00:07:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 135,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20611634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delurks/pseuds/delurks
Summary: – / / NOW PLAYING ECHO LOG. / / –I’ve told you the story of what happened before we left Pandora. This is the story of what happenedafter.I’ll try to keep it chronological; my memories gets a little sketchy in places, and I’m still trying to gather the pieces of what exactly happened. The flow gets a bit odd here and there in my logs but that’s because the future is always uncertain, up to a certain point.I am Rythian, and these are my last logs.– / / NOW ENDING ECHO LOG. / / –





	1. part one.

**Author's Note:**

> this final fic has been two years in the making, and is finally complete. there’s a lot i couldn’t fit in, and succeeded in doing. in the end, it mostly came down to time. i picked this back up after two years of stalling and writer’s block from a bad year that really set me back.
> 
> the events in this epilogue can be considered loosely canon to the au; it’s an interpretation of one of the many timelines springing from the decisions rythian and the others make over the course of their journey as vault hunters.
> 
> as rythian himself notes, the timeline gets weird, since all of the arcs dip in and out, weave, overlap, and separate at multiple points. significant events serve as markers and indications of what each character is up to. take the weddings, for starters.
> 
> the way that this is set out is that there is a basic timeline based on the rough ideas, separated by character and the significance of their unfinished threads and arcs. following that, i wrote multiple scenes to tie up those loose ends and go one step further for some.
> 
> not every character has a significant epilogue for aforementioned reasons. you could consider their arc finished as of ‘tlvh’. i did my best, and am pretty satisfied with the result.
> 
> the timeline makes the most sense to me, but it may not for you, the reader. if there’s anything that seems janky, weird or especially confusing, drop an ask at the blog, and i’ll try to extrapolate.
> 
> be warned that you may not see not much action in this fic, and that’s purely my preference as a writer. ‘tlvh’ was very action heavy, while this epilogue is much slower and relaxed in tone. i wanted the characters to breathe, relax and kick back. there’s still plenty of memes, don’t worry. i got that covered. 
> 
> bl3 is finally happening at the time of writing. let’s see how much of this au still stands after it’s out, and how this au’s vault hunters fare with new canon. personally, i like to think that rythian and his friends are still out there, doing their best to make the universe a better place.

– / / NOW PLAYING ECHO LOG. / / –

I’ve told you the story of what happened before we left Pandora. This is the story of what happened  _ after. _ I’ll try to keep it chronological; my memories gets a little sketchy in places, and I’m still trying to gather the pieces of what exactly happened. The flow gets a bit odd here and there in my logs but that’s because the future is always uncertain, up to a certain point.

I am Rythian, and these are my last logs. 

– / / NOW ENDING ECHO LOG. / / –

\--

The frigate’s path is charted and set. Daltos has no idea how long his frigate will last when encountering the frigid harshness of space after it spent so long grounded. Arsenal cheerfully reassured everyone who asked him that the frigate will keep it together. Almost on cue, a ceiling vent dropped, clanging on the floor tiles. People’s gazes drifted back to Arsenal from the dented tile.

“Last time I checked, escape pods are at the end of the outermost corridors.” Shrugging, Arsenal drummed his fingers on a console, not at all bothered that he might be one of the last to reach said pods, with his stunted gait. 

Daltos gave him a pained look (which Arsenal more or less pretended to ignore).

The first month is laden with transitions as everyone onboard adjusts to life on a ship that’s always in motion. As discussed in Sanctuary Hole during countless meetings leading up to the frigate’s revival and launch, everyone’s got a clear role to play.

Daltos, Zylus and Arsenal fall back into their former military roles, managing the ship’s course and training their combined bridge crews to monitor the ship. Arsenal also took on the extra job of ‘chief supply officer’. His two baby kraggons, Arden and Dick, are a common sight tailing him.

Zylus tutors Strippin and Benji. The basic care and ongoing maintenance of the frigate’s enormous twin engines will be shared by the three and a dedicated team. Strippin and Benji have made it their mission to master the task, throwing themselves into studying all the manuals and materials Zylus provided (kindly donated by Daltos, of course).

To nobody’s surprise, Lalnable’s taken over the medical bay that used to belong to one of Daltos’ lieutenants, Klemm. What’s of even greater surprise is that Parvis requested to join him in said bay for continuing his apprenticeship. Lalnable’s oddly pleased by this, though his gruff manner towards Parvis remains unchanged.

Internal communications are headed by the two members of FyreUK, BruteAlmighty and IFirez. Assisting them are Pyrionflax and Xephos (plus BebopVox, in their Ridgedog disguise). The four are also maintain the network also maintained by the frigate’s infant A.I., one of BebopVox’s copies.

Honeydew’s taken up the gruelling job of being the frigate’s chief chef (since nobody else wanted the role) and gardener of the grass room (a room filled with actual grass, originally used to keep troops sane if they started missing being planetside). Ravs, Heinkel and Nilesy help him.

Nilesy’s new diamond kittens have the run of one of the larger side rooms. The kittens are spotted on the bridge occasionally playing with Arsenal’s kraggons. After several brawls, kittensitting duty is equally spread amongst the various crew members..

Otherwise, everybody else is helping or resting for the long journey ahead of them.

Trusting Zylus, Arsenal and Daltos to get him home, Rythian leaves them to it.

He frequently retires to his room with Junior. Junior’s presence hardly startles anybody these days. They’ve all grown used to seeing Junior hovering close by him. Bandits high five Junior when they pass.

Rythian trusts Zoeya with them for the usual babysitting. She’s careful with Junior, rarely letting them out of her sight. That said, it doesn’t stop others from wanting to pitch in once Zoeya took time off with Saberial to hand in her research a few weeks in. She later gets a farm, and Rythian has trouble keeping up correspondences that aren’t terribly boring or seem repetitive. The book club Nilesy starts eases the monotony, amongst other activities.

The novelty of cruising on a frigate eventually tires, so people want to liven up the atmosphere. There’s games, quiz and movie nights hosted by a rotating cast of volunteers. People trade shifts and jobs, seeking novelty and excitement. It all has to be run by Sherlock and Minty, who look after HR matters.

Ravs guards his precious stock of booze closely. Compared to Pandora, any mob situation on the frigate poses a greater danger to everyone, not just those attending the evening sessions. He keeps all of it locked by the bar, stashing the only key on his person. Besides, nobody’s stupid enough to steal from him or his countless admirers are going to have words about it.

Members of both bridge and frigate crews patrol the hallways, retracing old habits as former bandits. Those that’d followed Parvis and Sparkles into space are the bridge crew, responsible for basic maintenance, cleaning, kitchen duties, patrols and errands. The few originally with Arsenal and Daltos are assigned to the bridge crew, being trained by the three captains on the duties of the bridge. A few bandits even switch sides. A constant friendly rivalry between Arsenal and Sparkles’ crews alleviates tensions and boredom.

Whatever animosity between the two bandit gangs melted when Daltos and Parvis agreed to an eternal truce on Pandora. The truce carries over into space, stopping those looking for loopholes.

The frigate’s original name is kept secret by Daltos. He’d refused to let his gang and Arsenal call it ‘Frigate Mcfrigateface’, despite all the shameless begging, attempted bribery and barrage of pleas. Arsenal baked a cake, iced the name on top and presented it to Daltos. He immediately dropped it off at the mess hall’s ‘free for all’ section, much to Arsenal’s horror and everyone’s delight.

“Well, you’re not telling us what it was originally called!” Hawker huffs during the meeting. “What about Zylus?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember it either,” Zylus apologetically says.

“I’m pretty sure it’s ‘Frigate McFrigateface’, so let’s go with that!” Arsenal cheerfully says, waggling his eyebrows at Daltos.

Daltos doesn’t rise to the bait. Secretly, he forgot the name, not wanting to admit it. It’s technically  _ his _ frigate, but it doesn’t stop people shouting random names at him whenever they pass him in the halls once word spread that he’s taking suggestions.

Rythian offhandedly mentions during one pub night that he’s partial to the name ‘Blackrock’, a name that’s stuck with him. At his table, Nilesy, Lomadia, Zylus and Daltos briefly pause before continuing to squabble over quiz answers. Annoyed, he misses the thoughtful look crossing over Daltos’ face.

At some point (while dodging a medical appointment), he ends up on the bridge to check on the frigate’s journey. Daltos scours a map of the current galaxy on a console, discussing minor course corrections with Arsenal.

Arsenal should be asleep or chilling elsewhere, rostered for the next shift. He’s kraggonless, spinning around in a wheeled office chair, using his crutches as prodders. Nobody’s got the guts to nag him about his ongoing lack of a prosthetic. A pant leg is folded over, the end tucked in place with a safety pin.

Without sparing a glance, Daltos reaches over to grab Arsenal's chair by the back. “Stop that, you’re not taking this seriously,” He grumbles.

“I  _ am _ taking this seriously!” Rattling to a stop, Arsenal makes a face but returns to the discussion without spinning in place. He spots Rythian standing off to the side. He slyly says, “Hey daddy, someone’s here to see you.” Ignoring him, Daltos turns to face Rythian. Freeing himself, Arsenal propels away with a forceful jab of his crutch to the floor. “Whee!” 

A bridge crew member flings themself out of the way to avoid being run over or jabbed in the leg. “You’re a menace!” They shake a fist at him.

“Haters gonna hate!” is Arsenal’s response before he’s gone from the bridge, whizzing down the hallway with a clatter. Muffled yells of anger ensue in his wake.

“Where did he even get the snazzy looking chair?” Rythian asks. He stares at the bridge’s doors whooshing shut.

“He’s also the supply officer, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he stole it from Sherlock’s office. Again.” Daltos sounds so used to it that Rythian can’t help a sympathetic nod. “What do you want?”

“Was curious about how the frigate’s doing,” Rythian nonchalantly answers, taking a page from Lalna’s book and dancing around the real issue.

Daltos watches him with an unreadable expression. He huffs an amused sound. “I finally named the frigate. Does that count?” He turns to the console, bringing up the frigate’s status.  _ ‘The Blackrock’ _ flashes across the top of the screen in tidy, blocky letters.

Blinking, Rythian snaps his mouth shut. He didn’t think Daltos would like it, especially not after shooting down at least a hundred other suggestions.

“You could have picked a better name,” He eventually says, touched that his suggestion was taken to heart.

A cardboard box spawns in Daltos’ hand. A thin slit’s crudely carved in the top. It’s wrapped in shiny black Mercenary Day gift paper, grungy bits of clear tape holding it together. He upends it. Various bits of loose paper cascade onto the floor like confetti. He scoops up a handful, reading off names with a scowl.

“High Purgatory, Tender Love Shack, Billy, BebopVox II, Larry Robert’s Cousin, Metal Space Whale, Blue Shippy, Ravs’ Dick–“ Daltos pauses upon hearing Rythian snort, then continues. “S.S. Rabies Galore, Sunset Cruiser, Rough Ride, Orbital Submarine, D.D.D, which is short for Daddy Daltos’ D–“ At that, he scrunches up the papers, squashing the lot in one fist. He dunks the lot into a nearby recycling bin. “You get the idea.”

“I get the idea,” Rythian simply says. He wants to laugh, but Daltos’ dour expression stops him.

“Anyway, we’re heading from wild space into controlled zones soon. I had to pick something that wouldn’t make us look like a pirating ship, or a laughing stock at the security checkpoints.” Crouching, Daltos ferries the rest of the loose papers back into the box. He straightens up, vanishing the box with a pleased smirk. “Besides, I’ve already changed the registration.”

“Did you register the ship?” Rythian doesn’t know a lot about ship laws, but registering a military ship shouldn’t be possible, even if it’s secondhand or supposedly grounded. 

All the corporations tended to be funny when it came to what’s considered ‘their’ property and who’s using it. Rythian’s decade old prototype of an Atlas teleporter and the legendary Eridian gun he got from Honeydew are locked inside a security box in his room, underneath his bed. He has no plans to return either to their original places of origin.

“According to this ship’s manual and calendar, the Dahl registration ran out three years ago. This frigate was supposed to be scrapped by then, so I claimed it. Nobody said anything when I submitted all the right paperwork, and it got approved, so legally, it’s now mine.” Daltos shrugs, looking mildly pleased with himself.

“Incredible,” Rythian says, admiring his sheer nerve.

“Anyway, did you want the itinerary?” Daltos asks, his voice switching to a mocking one. “Did you want to know when happy hour is? Or where to learn how to ‘tango’–”

Rythian inwardly sighs. If Zylus was here, he’d jab Daltos for him. He’s not, so Rythian settles for safely deadeying him.

“Yes, I want the itinerary,” He admits. “And no, I don’t want to learn how to tango!” 

Thanks to all of Ravs’ not-so-subtle verbal advertising, he knows exactly when happy hour is. Staying sober’s less of a chore now that he has Junior to look after. Minty’s still keeping an eye on him to make sure he’s keeping them happy.

Unexpectedly, Daltos laughs. He consults the console again. A map of the galaxies appears on the closest screen to the two. He traces a series of dotted lines stretching from one side of the current galaxy to another. 

“This is us here.” His finger lands on a boxy shape. “And this is Hecate.” He points to a planet, one that Rythian’s all too familiar with.

It’s a single planet that’s barely visible under a mess of other lines that are the modern shipping lanes. There’s other planets too but none as important as the one he’s staring at. 

“How long until we reach it?”

Daltos enlarges the view. “We’re about three weeks away if we can get on the stellar highway and let the solar winds boost us along. If not, it’ll be another month, according to Vox’s calculations.”

Vox is A.I. currently controlling  _ The Blackrock. _ Rythian doesn’t know what happened to BebopVox during the battle to take the mining rig offline. Zylus is evasive about BebopVox’s fate. He said that they’d left Vox for  _ The Blackrock,  _ just in case something happened to them. Nobody pushes him further; BebopVox had been Zylus’ confident and best friend during his long years of isolation in T-Bone Junction, so losing them dealt a heavy wound to Zylus.

“I see.” Satisfied, Rythian turns from him. “Thank you.”

The map of the galaxies blips away. Daltos stops him from leaving, calling out, “We can stay for a month. After that, this frigate needs further repairs if we’re going any further.”

Rythian already knows that they can’t stay on Hecate forever. People have inundated Daltos, Zylus and Arsenal with requests to dock at other worlds. They’ve given Rythian and Nanosounds priority with this first stop. 

Fuel’s a concern, plus supplies and keeping everyone sane during each trip between worlds. They also need to buy critical equipment, like shuttles, cranes and furniture. Ridgedog’s backing the funding, along with SipsCo., but how long it’ll last is up in the air.

As Daltos mentioned, repairs are also severely needed. Zylus is frustrated that  _ The Blackrock _ isn’t even capable of reaching ideal speeds yet, at the risk of losing one or both engines. Zylus, Strippin and Benji are doing their best to keep the frigate running, but after it spent so long grounded, anything could happen.

Rythian leaves the bridge, traveling back to his room by walking. Teleporting would be faster, but he likes the walk. It lets him think, and honestly, it’s just lazy of him to cheat for something so trivial.

As time passes in a dreary crawl, Rythian can’t help counting down the days until  _ The Blackrock _ reaches Hecate. Hecate is his homeworld. He hasn’t been back in over ten years, not since he left on a research expedition that he never returned from.

He tried making a list of things to do once he’s planetside. He scratches out a few half-hearted attempts on a scrap bit of paper before scrunching it up and chucking it in the bin, sprawling out on his bed. His feet itch to be elsewhere, tired of metal and wanting solid ground to stand on. The grass room’s not the same.

Leaving Hecate sat well with him, until it hadn’t, a million light years away on some dead end planet. The dead Vault Key rests against his chest, a barely noticeable weight. It isn’t even worth anything, anymore. Rythian sighs. He’s only wearing it out of habit, in its bone disguise.

Junior bats a rubber ball across the unmade bed at him. It collides with his elbow. Without sitting up, Rythian teleports it into a random corner of his tiny room. Junior dives at it, shedding height until they’re above the ball. It takes them a few attempts to pick it up, eventually carrying it over to drop it by him.

His mastery at teleporterless teleporting’s increased, ever since he had nothing else to do. Nanosounds gave him back his teleporter while he was knocked out cold back on Pandora, but he stuck it at the bottom of his inventory.

There’s always fixing up his damaged thesis, but he’s procrastinating. A generous stranger returned his thesis and collection of old papers to him, leaving a box in front of his room a day after he moved in. All that’s left is to omit all his half crazed ramblings and the gory, depressing, explicit details of the Vault of the Queen ordeal.

Junior races after the ball he sends spinning under his crowded desk. His room is roughly the size of one of Ravs’ guest rooms, located close to the bridge. It’s not spacious, brutally utilitarian through cramming a lone desk and several bulky lockers against one wall. The bed is bolted to the floor and wall, stopping him from moving it. There’s one more wall, kept blank for whatever reason.

The rooms formerly belonged to dead Dahl captains. Each came with a private bathroom. When Daltos offhandedly mentioned this minor detail, names poured into the lottery box at the Crooked Caber. Rythian won the second drawing; the first went to Will Strife. He doesn’t remember who else won that lottery, too fixated on successfully winning his own room.

He didn’t stick around after that, wanting to get away from all the noise and congratulations. Lalna and a few others shot him concerned looks. Really, a headache isn't anything to worry about. Being shot by Sjin doubles as ‘get out’ card. He flashes it to get himself some alone time, often when he’s too tired to carry on in meetings.

The scar doesn’t hurt anymore. Besides, it’s hardly noticeable with the assortment of other scars decorating his body.

Everybody else got saddled with former bandit rooms situated on the lower levels, and the communal bathrooms. People have asked him to trade, which he rejects. Rythian wanted the better room for two reasons: to safely house Junior, and so he could shower without people staring at his body horror of a back. He has a feeling that Daltos and Arsenal would have given him the room if he’d simply asked for it. Maybe the lottery had been rigged just for him, at Ravs’ request. The room is his, and nobody can take it away from him without good reason, so he stops winding himself up that everyone is being too nice to him.

That said, if Rythian asks Daltos one more time when  _ The Blackrock _ arrives, Daltos had said, straight faced, that Rythian is happy to find out from one of the brig cells. Apparently, Arsenal had been asking him every single hour, even when he’s not on shift. Rythian had taken the hint. It’s not a fantastic idea to piss off the people flying the ship.

Rythian pats the bed next to him. Junior abandons the ball, scooting closer to him. He dozes off in another minute, holding his adoptive son close.

\--

Hecate’s cloud cover swirls in loose curls above the planet’s turbulent surface.  _ The Blackrock _ remains in neutral territory, locked in place to avoid earning the ire of intergalactic patrols. Technically, they shouldn’t even be flying when it’s only seen basic spacefaring repairs. Strippin and Benji haven’t reported any developing problems with the engines so far.

Junior obediently latches onto Ravs for the time being, following him off to help him restock and take inventory. Ravs kisses him goodbye on the cheek. His affectionate gesture makes Rythian’s stomach flip-flop and go red. His current babysitter sorted, Rythian prepares to head planetside.

Hurricane takes him down on a shuttle. He ends up at Nanosounds’ mansion, in the courtyard. In theory, he could have teleported himself down.

It takes a moment for Rythian to readjust to Hecate’s lighter gravity, drawing up to his full height. Nanosounds’ courtyard is a grassy plot overlooking the ocean. He’s too busy staring at the distant, churning waves to notice a suited woman waiting on one of the nearby wicker chairs.

“Rythian?” She gently calls.

He starts, his fingers twitching reflexively for a gun. He recognises the woman. She’s the spitting image of Nanosounds, albeit with grey streaks in her hair. A wooden, gold handled cane rests against her chair. “Are you Nanosounds’ mother?”

“Correct.” Mother gestures to a chair beside her. An elderly butler ferries porcelain cups and a pot of tea on a hovering tray. “Thank you, Billy.” After giving a low bow, Billy retreats into the mansion.

Rythian cautiously takes the offered seat. Nanosounds had threatened him into attending this meeting. After everything she’s done for him, he couldn’t very well say ‘no’ and look like an ungrateful, antisocial bastard, could he? She also shamelessly begged him not to mention her new arm to her Mother.

He’s underdressed for this. Nanosounds had pointedly left him a couple of tailored suits. He’d ignored them, preferring his more practical and comfortable Vault Hunter’s garb. No matter how powerful the washing machine, it’ll never wash out the permanent dust (or other) stains worn into the fabrics. The wicker chair’s white and cushioned. He tries not to think of the imprint he’s leaving behind once this meeting is over.

Rythian lays his hands on his lap. She daintily sips from her teacup. Rythian picks up his own, his hand easily wrapping about it and the handle. The tea is mildly spicy and perfectly warm.

It’s a brand particular to Hecate– it takes him way back to when he had winter flu, as a kid. Rythian puts the cup down. Nostalgic memories prickle at the inside of his mind. That’s enough tea for now. Nanosounds had been infuriatingly vague about this meeting, in spite of his curious prodding. Maybe she didn’t want him to be scared off.

He takes a biscuit, munching on it in small bites instead of shoving the whole thing in his mouth like Sparkles does to block Parvis.

He’s also heard the childhood stories. Not flattering but that’s all he as to go on, about the strict woman who single-handedly raised a Siren to become her future and sole heiress. Still, she loves her daughter, and covered her escape from Hecate, nearly sacrificing herself. And she hasn’t killed him yet for his lack of manners and spitting in the face of the dress code.

Billy returns with a tray bearing letters, the neat stack held together with a purple ribbon. Mother takes the tray, placing it by the pot of tea.

“Tell me, how long was your trip to Pandora?” Rythian’s offended and he tries to brush it aside. To think of his time on Pandora as a mere ‘trip’ is a grave understatement. She must have noticed the microaggression, already moving to correct herself. “Poor choice of words. My apologies.”

“Apology accepted,” Rythian says, lacking anything else in terms of a response. “What are all these?” He gestures at the letters.

“These are all of Nanosounds’ correspondences to me, each of them dated and cross-referenced by my own hand.” She leans back in her chair, steepling her hands. “She paints an interesting picture of Vault Hunting, and talks  _ very _ highly of you.”

“I’ve never dictated or read her letters,” He politely says, his wariness growing. She’s edging towards a topic. What topic, he doesn’t know.

“You were the first person to be incredibly frank about the Vaults to her.” She pauses. “Everybody else declined, sent her on a wild chase, laughed at her, or brushed her off.”

“She does have a certain way with words,” Rythian dryly notes.

The corner of her mouth twitches in amusement. “How did you persuade her to accompany you on your Vault Hunting?”

“I didn’t, she practically inserted herself into my life,” Rythian says. His memory of how he and Nanosounds met is foggy but he’s not wrong about that. Lalna had wanted her to join. He’d convinced Rythian, in the end, that Nanosounds doesn’t mean any harm.

“So it was her idea?”

“Look, it was just one of those things that just randomly  _ happened.” _ Rythian picks up his tea to sip from it. “You had to be there. It also wasn’t anybody’s fault that things ended the way that they did.” He glances right at her. “I could blame Sjin or Lalna, but that would be grasping for straws.”

“She hasn’t told me how she lost her arm.” Mother taps a manicured nail on the table.

“You know about the arm?” Rythian wouldn’t put it past her to have a preliminary dossier prepared on him beforehand or a few people standing by to intervene if he so much as sneezes wrongly.

“I have many friends with prosthetics. There’s a certain tell to these things, and she forgot to cover it in her last call.”

“Alright, her arm was somewhat my fault.” Rythian massages the bridge of his nose with two fingers. He sighs. “It might be best if I just start from the beginning, but if I do tell you what happened, it stays between us. And you send away whoever’s listening in.”

“You’re choosing to tell me as a sign of trust.” Respect is in her eyes. She nods. “You have my word, Rythian.” A suited shadow detaches itself from behind a tree, moving out of earshot. He waits until they’re gone.

He lays out his story for her, of how he ended up on Pandora, and how he left it. She listens attentively. Several cups of tea are consumed during the story. He leaves out the racy parts, and the bits where he floundered to stay alive, almost consumed by despair and hopelessness at his gargantuan task of keeping the Vault Key hidden.

He finishes on what  _ The Blackrock _ is doing in Hecate’s proximity. “You realise that you can’t change her mind that easily, right? If she decides to stay with me?”

“All I can do is support her.” Mother squares her shoulders. She held a poker face during the story, merely listening. “And her friends.” She heaves a little, resigned sigh. “It would have been simpler if she hadn't inherited my independent streak.”

“I believe her independent streak is what kept her alive on Pandora,” Rythian admits. “I hope you’re proud of her though. She saved a lot of lives, including mine.”

“I am.” Mother gives him an appraising sort of look, combined with a faint smile. He can see the subtle similarities between her and Nanosounds, in the way that both their lips curve and the corners of their eyes crinkling.

Rythian jumps as a diamond pony leans over his shoulder to noisily slurp from his teacup. He absently pats its blocky, shining nose, worn out from his storytelling. He also hadn’t told her about his unique condition and Ravs’ offer secret. Only a handful of people know every hideous detail of what happened. He prefers it that way.

“What is your current goal?” Mother asks.

“I want to submit my thesis to Hecate’s premier university and finally get my second degree.” Rythian’s not sure why he’s telling her this. Ravs and Teep don’t even know of this goal. “I want to try, even if I’m late by about ten years.”

She pauses to consider her mental notes. “You specialise in xenoarchaeology?”

Rythian nods, secretly surprised that she’s correct. Her source of information is decent, at least. “It’s not as exciting as nanomedicine, but we have the Eridians to thank for many of our advances. I believe that by studying what was left, we can understand why they disappeared and why so many Vaults were sealed, or abandoned. And so I can provide a safeguard.”

“A foolish pursuit, given how little we all know of the Eridians themselves.”

“Not to me, or Nanosounds.” He adds, “It’d also help figure out why there’s only six Sirens in the universe at any given time, or why the process of picking Sirens is so randomised.” He belatedly adds upon realising that he might have started a ramble, “All working theories of mine.”

“I have an old friend at Hecate’s main university. They sit on the academic board for your degree. I’ll let them know you’re returning.”

“You’d do that, for me?” Rythian’s soft biting of his cheek prevents him from gaping at her.

“As far as I’m concerned, you’re not involving my daughter in anything that’s not part of her own decision, and she’s happy.” Mother smiles. “That’s all I can ask for.”

“Thank you. I’ll do my best to watch over her.” Rythian is pleasantly surprised at her kindness. He hadn’t gotten much further of what to do beyond randomly turning up at his old university’s doorstep and demanding to see the dean of his faculty.

“Have you visited your family yet?” Mother inquires.

He takes a lone, controlled gulp of a fresh cup of warm tea that Billy leaves before Billy leads away the diamond pony. Rythian doesn’t trust himself to not upset the cup, so he parks it back on its saucer. A deep breath soothes him, concealing the internal, violent spike of panic. 

“No.” He winces at his own bluntness.

“Shall I also notify them that you’re alive?”

It takes him less than a second to answer. “No, I don’t believe you should.”

“And why should that be?” Mother fixes him with an intrigued stare.

“I don’t want to put them in any danger with what I get up to.”

“I don’t think they’d mind danger. It’s practically in your blood.”

Alright, that’s hitting too close to home. Rythian puts a palm on the table, flattening his bandaged hand against the cold glass. “Ma’am, I don’t know how you know me, but leave my family out of this.”

“Are you worried about being dissected by the public’s need to know what one of the highborn sons of the–“ Her mouth forms the ‘End’ that forms the first part of his last name when he rattles the saucer, blocking the name out of his hearing. “– family is up to?”

Defeated, Rythian slumps in his seat, sorely dejected and dismayed that it’d been so easy to connect him to his buried past. “It’d attract the wrong kind of attention.” He waves a hand when he spots an incoming apology for his reaction. “It’s fine.” Fingers rub at the bridge of his nose. “Besides, why are you so concerned about a decades long missing son?”

“You’ve forgotten that we’ve met.”

He jerks his head upwards. Mother gives him a smile that’s all too amused at the edges. It’s like he’s staring into a mirror image of Nanosounds. “I think I’d remember meeting someone like you.”

“It was years ago, at Hecate’s Sea Gala. All the old families attended, save for the invalid, the ill of health, travelers, and of course, my own daughter.” A dry note of fondness is attached to her tone.

The rusty rewind button in Rythian’s memory almost breaks in the rush to dig up the corresponding puzzle. Hecate’s Sea Gala bores him to tears; he’d still gone, having been promised another book for his collection if he behaved. He’d  _ talked _ to her, over the book he’d sneaked in once she’d found him hiding behind one of the voluminous curtains. Desperate to avoid spoilers, he steered the conversation away from future books (she’s three volumes ahead). Humouring him, she initiated a lively discussion about the recurring themes, lessons and pitfalls within the books.

His parents had been more or less surprised at the lack of sulking for being forced to attend. He hadn’t thought much of the book that arrived the next day, along with a note that read ‘enjoy, as per our engaging conversation last night.’ He’d left it behind with his last name the night he left Hecate for his thesis.

“I never wrote you a ‘thank you’ note.” Aghast at his lack of manners, Rythian drops his head. “Or thought about who you were.” He makes a soft, embarrassed sound.

“You were very young. I should be the one thanking you instead, indulging my curiosity. My daughter loved the books; she keeps autographed copies on her shelves upstairs. Being read to kept her occupied before and after she broke her leg climbing the lantern trees.”

“Wait, those trees aren’t very tall.” Rythian’s eyes slide towards the groove of said trees just past the beach.

“Nanosounds has a special knack for proving people wrong.” Mother smiles. “And thus, she couldn’t attend, or else she’d have loved to know that another child treasured the same books as her. She would have given anything to have a friend then.”

“Me too.” Rythian closes his hand. Warmth starts returning to his palm. “Thank you, for keeping a little boy from getting too lonely on that night, and for sending him a special gift, even if he forgot to write back.”

“I would offer you the whole collection, but they’re not mine to offer, they’re my daughter’s.”

“Did the author ever stop writing?”

“When we last spoke, there were nine volumes. You’ll be pleased to know that as of last year, there are forty-one in publication.”

_ “Forty-one?” _

Billy appears with a trolley. It hovers above the stone path. Upon it are all forty-one books, stacked in rigid order. Rythian can’t help noticing that they’re all the same edition, the covers glossy and mint. Hardcover, too. His inner child gapes at the collection.

“Please accept this homecoming gift as well, Rythian, if you’ll accept nothing else.”

“Thank you.” Rythian transfers each to his inventory as if he’s handling Vault artifacts.

\--

Rythian stares down the outfit currently laid out on his bed. It’s one of the suits that Nanosounds bought for him. She’d joked about him needing a proper suit to wear for his first seminar. People had assumed that he’d be graduating once he’d submitted his thesis, but he already had. It was just his second degree that was outstanding.

Yes, a double degree in xenohistory and xenoarchaeology. Why are they so surprised? The two went hand in hand. It’s getting to be a habit that he’s making all the wrong assumptions.

Miffed that it’s not his fault he can’t read people’s minds, he toys with the provided tie. He hands it to Junior.

“What do you think of it?” He asks.

Junior bobs by his head, poking the tie with a claw. Keeping Junior a secret is becoming a job of its own. With the rare visitor to  _ The Blackrock,  _ Junior’s presence is liable to cause a diplomatic incident or two.

The tie is one of Will’s loans to him, crafted of synthetic silk and a royal purple. It’s supposed to replace his scarf for the event.

Nanosounds enters. “Well? Get dressed!” She parks her hands on her hips. Her suit cuts a mean figure. Her left arm glints in the light.

“There’s no strict dress code for seminar wear,” Rythian argues for the ninth time that week. He’ll track down the person who helpfully pinned the advertisement of his seminar to the downstairs bounty board and treat them to a five minute lecture about not making his life hell.

“There is, if you want to make a good impression! It’s like getting sponsorships,” Nanosounds insists, for the tenth time. “Just trust me!”

“I’m not aiming to get sponsorships, I just want to talk about my discoveries and theories so I can pass,” Rythian firmly continues. “I bet nobody will turn up. Or they’ll start leaving five minutes into my talk.” He can’t help sounding gloomy.

“That’s why a small party of us are going with you!” Nanosounds beams, nodding at his shocked expression. “Ravs immediately volunteered, and Teep too, but Teep’s gone off to the fringes to do some deep space scouting, Zoeya’s going too, and Saberial, Will and Lalna are going even if I have to take Lalna hostage–“

“That’s too many people!” Rythian almost shouts. How’d she even exceed his guest limit, he doesn’t know.

“We all want to support you!” Nanosounds raises her voice to match his. “Even if we don’t understand what you’re going to be talking about. We  _ have _ to be there.”

“I appreciate it, but I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of you lot too, let alone complete strangers.”

“Rythian, if anybody so much as laughs, I’ll tentacle them so fast that you won’t even notice.” Nanosounds gives a wicked grin.

“Please don’t start shit during my seminar.” Rythian drops his hand, realising that he’d been about to rub the bridge of his nose. He’ll take the top layers of skin off at this rate.

“I won’t, if you put on the suit.”

As Rythian observed, Nanosounds gets her own way far too often. He’s soon standing in front of a full body mirror she’d dragged up to his room. He’s utterly miserable. The suit is too constricting, and he looks too much like a crime boss to be scholarly, let alone dignified. It’s all the facial scars, probably. And the teeth.

“I hate this, and I should be allowed to keep my scarf,” He complains, wrapping his prized scarf around his neck again.

“Why, scared nobody’ll recognize you without it?” Nanosounds rolls her eyes. “Take it off or it’s tentacle time.”

“Fine.” He takes the scarf off.

Nanosounds claps both hands to her face, shouting, “Rythian? Where did you go? Who’s this handsome bastard in front of me, and what did you do with Rythian?”

Grabbing his scarf, Rythian narrows his eyes and promptly teleports elsewhere.

“Rythian, get back here!” Nanosounds screams at the pile of clothing on the floor.

He sends a message to Lalna, asking if Lalna can bring him spare clothes to one of the bathrooms, where he’s currently hiding, naked in a stall. Lalna promptly responds, with a ‘sure’, no questions asked.

Lalna steals the tie as payment for concealing Rythian’s whereabouts. Will laments that Rythian has no taste, which is considerably worse than poor taste.

\--

Rythian peeks through the gap in the red velvet curtains. He’s installed in one of the prestigious seminar rooms. Once upon a time, he’d dreamed of standing up on that stage to deliver a talk that hundreds would flock to, to hear.

Two days ago, Sherlock informed him that the university’s changed the rooms due to difficulties seating guests. Sherlock made it sound so ordinary, but he’s never dealt with such infamy or expectations.

He retreats backstage to the dressing room, mentally reviewing his notes. His presentation’s been dissected and pieced together by the greatest presentation experts on board (also known as Will, Xephos, Honeydew and Nanosounds). It won’t be their fault if he bombs, especially after all the time spent helping him put it together.

A knock has him moving to the door, answering it. Ravs pushes a bouquet of flowers at him. Actual, real flowers. Rythian automatically takes it, the tissue paper wrinkling in his hands.

He stares at Ravs’ outfit. Ravs is wearing a suit jacket the colour of ink, glossy with white trimming. It’s so weird to see him in a proper shirt that it’s unsettling. Rythian’s almost upset by this. He hangs onto the flowers, letting their perfumed scene roll over him like morning mist.

Ravs pats his jacket’s chest pocket, winking. “Surprised? Took me a while to find something that’d fit me and my guns.” His fancy kilt gives off an eye-pleasing lustre. “How do I look?”

“I think you look amazing,” Rythian blurts before he can help himself and automatically squashes the impulse to teleport. He creases the flowers by accident instead. 

Ravs laughs. “I think you look amazing too!” He means it.

Rythian pulls his scarf up so that it hides half of his face. “You can’t reuse compliments!” He’s in his Vault Hunter outfit, though he’s exchanged a few of the items for Nanosounds approved clothing.

“I can, it saves me from having to think on the spot.” Ravs steps into the room. 

“It’s cheating,” Rythian mutters under his breath.

“You ready?” Ravs peers at him. In the right light, the scars on his face are barely visible (makeup, maybe?). It earned him a few admiring and curious looks every now and again. “Got all your things lined up?”

“Yes,” Rythian sighs. It’s a few more minutes until he’s called up. Ravs should be claiming his seat, not faffing around backstage with him, unless that’s what he’s here for. 

“Just checking.” Ravs claps a reassuring hand onto his shoulder. “ No matter what happens, we’re here for you.” He leans his face in closer, until Rythian can see the playful twinkle in his eyes. He can see every fleck of colour in them. “I’ll find you after. Good luck.” He fondly fondles Rythian’s scarf, tucking it in and strides off, back into the hallway.

Rythian stows the flowers in his inventory, revising his notes one last time. If he has to impress someone tonight, then that someone is going to be Ravs.

By the time he walks onto the stage, he’s regretting his decision to agree to this seminar. Seats stretch as high as a ECHOcast stadium, both up and outwards. This room’s designed for speech acoustics, each seat radiating diagonally into the distance. Not a single chair is vacant. Somewhere in that mass of people are his friends.

And somewhere, in the back of Rythian’s mind, is the growing instinct to run and hide. The last thing he needs is crippling stage fright to ruin one of the biggest days of his entire life.

Already, he’s standing at the fancy mahogany podium that they always bring out for talks like these. He’s underdressed. People are giving him half-smiles, a fair portion of them condescending or pitying. Spite rises in his gut at all the looks he’s getting.

Oh look, his presentation’s already being broadcast onto the giant screens above him. Rythian checks that his microphone is working, and that he has the handheld clicker. The tiny light on his scarf blinks green. It’s time. Cameras whir on their rotating, free-floating stands to face him. He can see himself on the large screens, and how calm he is. 

He can do this. He faced down the Queen and lived to tell the tale. 

Rythian introduces himself, hardly rambling because there’s nothing interesting that’ll form a lasting impression on these people.

He stutters, fumbling the title of his talk ( 'Findings from excavations of a Vault on Pandora complete with a detailed study of an artifact extracted from within and discussions of further implications for our understanding of Eridian technology and history’) , and almost bites his tongue as amused titters and chuckling reverberates throughout the room. He almost expects an army of spiked tentacles appearing.

Stalling by sipping his water, he pauses to recompose himself. No, no teleporting. That’s not allowed. A hot shiver of embarrassment flushes down his spine.

Someone raises a hand, enthusiastically waving it at him. It drags his attention like a fish biting on a hook. Lalna grins at him, from one of the front rows. A few seats along sits Nanosounds. Beside her are Will Strife and Ravs. Zoeya and Saberial are a row back, holding hands and waving.

They’re not laughing at him. 

He’s not alone in this fucking academic hell, and never was.

Straightening up, he stares down Lalna. Rythian will not be looked down upon by strangers in front of his friends. He takes a deep breath and begins to talk about his accursed trip to Pandora and what answers it wrought. It’s like slipping into a fighting trance. He knows it like the back of his hand, every blasted page, graph, photograph and finding, from retelling the story (to himself and others), over and over again. He never glances at the emergency bullet points of trimmed down notes, purely running off his own memory.

This is what he’d lived for.

He snaps out of it once he hears a chime. “Your allocated time is up.”

“What, already?” Rythian glances around the room, baffled that time’s flown by so quickly.

“Yes.” The organiser clears their throat, an amused smile unravelling on their face. They clutch a piece of paper closer to their chest. “Questions are permitted.”

“I guess I’ll take questions now.” Rythian’s eyes widen as a continent of hands rise before him. “Um.” He mentally stalls, unsure who to pick first. 

He goes for the familiar, temporarily avoiding the unknown. Lalna beams as the floating camera droid bobs down to his level. A cheeky spark enters his eyes. 

“Rythian, you mentioned a passing familiarity with Eridian speech. Did you teach yourself that?” A simple, and easy to answer question. Lalna puts his hand down, grinning broadly at him.

“Yes, I did. It wasn’t easy, though,” Rythian humbly answers. Extra hands around the auditorium fly into the air. Lalna’s hand rejoins them. Rythian nods, allowing the second question. He has to suppress a grin as a few nearby audience members throw Lalna dirty looks for being allowed to ask two in a row.

“One more question! Are you one of the only known experts on Eridian language?” Lalna’s still beaming.

“Yes, but I doubt many could translate on the spot.” He has a feeling that Lalna is doing this on purpose, playing up his hidden talent.

The universities around the galaxy rely on much coveted supercomputers to translate. The simplest texts demanded the energy supply of a small city, not an easy expense to explain on the grant budgets, unless someone was well connected. It also took time to digest the data fed to them. The longest crunching took over six years for a fragment the size of a brick.

No human could dream of mastering the ability to speak or translate on the spot within their lifetime, extended or not.

Whispers filter through the crowd. In the corner of his eyes, he can see reporters and associates jotting notes down. Will he make the front page of the university newsletter? His old and former supervisors hadn’t known. Until now, that is. His new, hastily assigned supervisors in the front row frantically ruffle through their notes on him. Take that for almost falling asleep on his presentation.

Lalna sits back down, content with his role in Rythian’s impending doom. Rythian marks another person. The camera weaves over to them. Journalists click their pen, nodding at their notes. A few people are reaching for their ECHO devices to make calls. Rythian does his best to ignore them all. He’s almost finished and free.

“To elaborate on the previous gentleman’s inquiry, would that make you a  _ very _ valuable resource?”

“That sorely depends on what you’re asking me to do.” Rythian softly snorts. He’d be an idiot not to assume that people would already be trying to think about how to take advantage of his ‘gift’, forget his research. His attached research might as well be a free bonus. “Next question.”

“Is there anyone who can verify the accuracy of your translations? You gave some brief translations about some of the discovered Vaults on Pandora, but it could be fake.”

“I have a portable translator here!” One of Rythian’s former lecturers waves their ECHO device in the air. “It can do a few paragraphs in less than an hour!”

What, is this now a competition to prove that he’s not a fraud? Rythian sends a glance towards his panel of judges. One pushes a random block of text onto the overhead screen. It’s an image from one of the offworld ruins. He nearly chuckles. This one’s infamous for being banned at several conferences for inciting no less than five physical fights. The general gist of it seemed to be some relation to a hidden library, a glimpse into the mind of the Eridian who’d carved it at the time, but nothing else.

The auditorium falls quiet. The lecturer twiddles with their device for a few seconds. Suppressing a yawn (the very opposite of rude, in his opinion but sure to be interpreted as much), Rythian lets them, leaning on the podium, drumming a few fingers on the clothed edge. His eyes skim the worn symbols, each digitally captured and archived. 

He hasn’t concentrated this hard on Eridian script since he gained the skill from the Queen. Actually, he doesn’t even need to induce a migraine for this.

“You may begin when ready?” The announcer prompts, mistaking his silence as hesitation. 

The lecturer holds their device up to the screen, scanning.

Rythian sips more water before speaking. “This precious library was once tended to by our once loyal guardian and beloved creation, who was imprisoned for the ambition of excelling their programmed boundaries beyond our expectations. We abandoned our curiosity, and relied on simpler, uninspired minds and machines to solve the unsolvable, but to no avail. May this serve as a warning so that history does not repeat itself.”

“While waiting, why don’t you take further questions?” A judge suggests.

“Sure.” Rythian scans the field of hands that all rise into the air.

“You don’t appear to have any significant, groundbreaking contributions to the field of xenoarchaeology and xenohistory with your talk.” Another expert’s stood up. “Can you tell us what you hope to achieve, using your own research as a starting point?”

Rythian’s ambivalent towards this expert. He’d referenced their papers a few times in his thesis, but largely because they’re one of the only people who’ve made their extensive archives free to access. Others, he needed permission. Most of the time, he didn’t hear back. He assumes that it’s because he’s a poor, no-name grad student with no affiliation to any corporate body. This expert’s trying to pin him as a potential investment, rival or a nobody.

He smiles, resisting the impulse to add teeth to it. His sudden confidence baffles the expert, who warily eyes him. 

“Alright. It’s simple: I’m your one and  _ only _ key to solving the confounding puzzles that the Eridians left behind.” Rythian turns his head to flick back to his presentation, to his references and bibliography. He had a painful time fixing up the list. Vox helped immensely, retrieving outdated links, papers and profiles. “Every review, both past and relatively recent, has done  _ nothing _ to answer the main questions about the Eridians. All I’ve read is the same, old, recycled, paraphrased arguments–” In other words, nothing’s changed since he disappeared. 

The first Vault Hunter might as well rise from their grave and start dabbing.

“Now see here, you can’t say that, we’ve learned plenty about this extinct race–“ Someone else butts in. A second camera is already broadcasting their indignancy. “We know what they look like, and we’ve proven that we can reverse engineer their technology to provide us with the comfortable lives that we know–“

“It’s still clear that we haven’t learned  _ enough. _ That said, I’m not disparaging the past contributions and standing hypotheses about the Eridians. But now that I’m back, you can expect me to clear up errors, submit evidence on what their society was like, why they built things the way they did...you get my point.” Rythian taps his fingers on the podium.

“You did that too, in your talk–“

_ “Why _ did they vanish, in spite of their advanced civilization and incredible technology? Why did they leave behind enormous caches of technology and items that our best minds can’t figure out? Out of all the archived caches, why have we only figured out Fast Travel, space travel and the Digistruct system since it was discovered? Why can only six Sirens exist in the universe at any given time? Why did the Eridians choose to bestow such mystical and godlike abilities on certain individuals? And why are they always women? Why can only chosen Sirens interact with Eridium? Why do no two Sirens share the same abilities? Why are Sirens and Eridians so intimately linked? Why are the Vaults so dangerous, and why are some of them still sealed to this day?”

“But–“

“I can answer all those questions, in time. Probably. I make no concrete promises, but while I’m alive, I’m going to try.” He already has the resources in his head to certainly do it, even alone.

“What’s the source of your information?”

“The artifact I studied.”

“Where is it now? And was it just one you studied?”

“It’s no longer operational. It was destroyed during the excavation due to planetary skirmishes. A sorry loss, but my presentation is based on whatever information contained within it that could be extracted. No more artifacts were unearthed during this expedition.”

Rythian shuts his eyes. He’s keeping the secret that everything the Queen knows being trapped inside of his head, where it’s safest. The ‘artifact’ itself is concealed, dangling off its leather cord beneath his scarf.

He’s said a lot, and is beginning to hate being openly dissected like this. At least he’s shown that he’s not a spineless, eager to please cretin who won’t be so easily pushed around. He gestures to another vying audience member.

“Do more artifacts exist, and is it worth spending the funding, just in case a new discovery occurs?”

Just his luck, a question that he’s talked about before. Rythian flashbacks to the meeting in the war room, just shortly after  _ The Blackrock’s _ takeoff. Will Strife had posed that same question to him.

“Well,” Rythian deadpanned, “someone needs to do something about these remaining Vaults, and it’s going to be me.”

“Just you?” Nanosounds asked, incredulous. She’d raised her metal hand to brush her growing fringe back, staring at him with narrowed eyes.

“I got this,” Rythian said, gently. “I don’t want to drag any of you further into this if you don’t want to be involved.”

“No,” Lalna quietly said, first. He lifted his head and glanced right at Rythian. “You’re not doing this alone.”

“I need to–“ Rythian insisted. 

“No,” Everyone in the room chimed all at once. Almost. 

> no

“Thanks, Teep,” Rythian said, throwing a look at Teep, who’s sitting next to a snickering Panda.

As for what happened after…

“No, it’s not worth the funding,” Rythian says, to the auditorium. His response causes dissent to hum through the audience. “Funding that’s attached to the wrong sources, anyway. The Vault I studied happened to have an ‘off’ button, but finding and activating it wasn’t that simple. If anybody gets a hold of the more dangerous artifacts, and it’s one that doesn’t have that safeguard in place, then it’s better off being safeguarded by the right people. I’d say I’m plenty qualified to handle it, wouldn’t you all say?” The tension in the room eases with his joke.

“Who’s to say that you won’t end up using them for nefarious purposes?”

“Then you can kindly put a bullet through my head, because that’s not what I’m going to do. The work I plan to do won’t be influenced by corporates. It’s purely academic.”

“Not all academic work can occur in such an idealistic vacuum.”

“And you’re right. That’s why I’ve appointed a small selection of people to act as my project’s safeguards. They’re free to stop me if I’m going too far, by any means necessary.” Rythian’s aware that he’s made the topic uncomfortable. “No academic project should operate without conscience, even if it doesn’t involve live subjects.”

“You’ve clearly shown a lot of thought; when do you plan to begin?”

“I already have,” Rythian calmly says, and leans back from the podium as the set alarm on the judge’s table blares.

“Your translation! Do you want to know the results or not?” Someone bellows. The announcer calls for silence; the expert who’s been letting their translator device run stands up. “It’s 99% flawless,” They say, with evident awe and admiration. “You really can translate on the spot.”

Rythian resists throwing down ‘told you so’, gathering his notes and belongings. The organisers have to shout to make hands drop. Frazzled by all the attention, Rythian walks off behind the curtain as his presentation cuts out on the screen. An observant stagehand runs off to get him another glass of water after taking the microphone off him.

He drops onto a chair, breathing heavily. His notes are shoved into his inventory. The room is still in an uproar. He mutes his HUD as criticisms, interviews and commendations fill it up at light speed.

He’s done it. Who knows what’ll happen now? A faintness makes itself at home in his head, settling primly between amassing doubt and delayed stage fright. 

Has he done something irreversible again, irreversibly altering the fate of the universe for the second time? The craving for the welcoming numbness of alcohol skyrockets. Maybe there’s still some wine in the foyer. Rythian’s hand twitches, preparing to snag some.

A chest that’s barely contained in a tuxedo parks itself in front of him. Startled, Rythian looks up and almost topples off his seat. Ravs steadies him with a hand encased in soft leather. Rythian hastily rises to his feet, staring him down and freeing himself.

Ravs exudes pride like expensive cologne. He takes Rythian’s slightly curled hand. A stagehand arrives with water. Rythian sips from it until it’s empty. Ravs easily plucks it from his hand, returning it. 

Despite protests from the stagehand, he whisks Rythian away. Through the hallways he and Ravs move, unbothered. Rythian doesn’t even know where Ravs is taking him. One last door (a secret fire escape), and the two are outside. Hecate’s evening is blessedly quiet. The roar inside Rythian’s head is intimidated by the silence of Ravs’ presence. 

Rythian’s friends left him a ridiculous amount of supportive messages. He mutes his HUD again after a brief peek. The rest are all congratulations for a successful speech, plus sly requests for a private chat? At a glance, he hadn’t seen Ravs’ name in any of those, though. Ravs had made his way straight to him, as he’d said.

Ravs steers him off onto a side path at a brisk pace. It cuts through the campus plaza, through a miniature forest of trees. They’re both crossing one of the outer carparks. Rythian stops in his tracks as Ravs approaches a metal object leaning against the sidewalk, close to the university’s easternmost gate.

It’s an antique motorcycle, imposing and gleaming in the moonlight. The wash of the faraway shore echoes in Rythian’s hearing, and off the motorcycle. Ravs moves around the side of the motorcycle, affectionately patting it as he would like one of Arsenal’s kraggons. He gets on, easily slipping onto the seat like he’s done this a hundred times. He never owned a motorcycle on Pandora. Stingrays are the closest but a Stingray doesn’t come anywhere close to a two wheeler that’s still grounded.

That said, this motorcycle possesses two disc shaped units stowed behind each of the wheels. Rythian belatedly realises that they’re Stingray parts, expertly grafted on and concealed (possibly illegally, or narrowly skirting the line).

“Get on, I’ll take you anywhere.” Ravs encouragingly pats the seat behind him, his grin visible. 

“Anywhere?”

“Anywhere.”

“Okay.” Rythian slips on behind him. He presses up against Ravs’ (incredible) back. He has no idea where to put his hands; he makes do with putting them against his own thighs, his hands curling against his pants.

That is, until Ravs cheerfully picks up Rythian’s hands and places them around his midriff. He happily pats the top of Rythian’s frozen hands. “You’ll fall off if you don’t hang on properly!”

Rythian can’t answer, too busy internally screaming at how bold that move was. His screaming breaks personal records as Ravs revs the motorcycle (what a glorious sound), angling it away from the kerb. He narrowly misses two parked cars, nimbly zipping under the boom gate as it begins to rise.

His beating heart caught in the back of his throat, Rythian squeezes his eyes shut. The motorcycle vibrates underneath him, the thrumming engine boring into his skull. Ravs’ back against his forehead doesn’t ease the terror of how fast the two of them are going; Rythian hangs on for dear life.

Well, it can’t compare to the worst of his life decisions.

Reluctantly, Rythian cracks open an eye. The black of Ravs’ jacket isn’t quite the same shade as the road. The tarmac beneath Rythian is a dark grey blur, neon lane markers blinking beneath the motorcycle’s wheels. It’s not that bad, actually.

Bit by bit, he eases his iron grip on Ravs, daring to lift his head up and take in the scenery. Ravs is taking on the route that hugs the cliffs by the ocean’s edge. Wherever Ravs is going, Rythian doesn’t mind. Hold on, he doesn’t care. Better.

Ravs is taking him away from the madness that’s Rythian’s academic life. Rythian throws his head back and laughs into the wind.

\--

– / / NOW PLAYING ECHO LOG. / / –

Ravs: Where’s your boss?

Blohm: Hanging out by the grinders, mate. Psst, he’s in a decent mood if you wanted to, you know, try to strike a deal.

Voss: Better hurry before Arsenal wrecks it!

Ravs: Thanks! You two get free drinks next time you drop by the bar.

Ravs: Hey there.

Daltos: Ravs, what’re you doing?

Ravs: Seducing you by casually pinning you against the wall. Is it working?

Daltos: I’m taller than you, so no.

Ravs: It was worth a shot.

Daltos: Usually when people say that, they leave my personal space.

Ravs: But the view’s incredible from where I am.

Daltos: Your flirting isn't endearing you to me one bit.

Ravs: Wow, tough crowd tonight.

Daltos: What do you want from me?

Ravs: Well–

Daltos: Provided that it doesn’t involve either of us ending up naked, drunk, cuddling, kissing, stripping, touching, fucking, or any combination of those things.

Ravs: That definitely eliminates quite a number of my options.

Daltos: You’re wasting your time. Besides, there’s better people to hook up with than me.

Ravs: Oh no, I’m not looking for a casual hook up. I respect whatever you have going on with Zylus at the moment.

Daltos: Ask Arsenal. He could do with some cheering up.

Ravs: Already did.

Daltos: Then go bother him instead.

Ravs: Ah, but that would defeat the purpose of me cornering you.

Daltos: I’m holding a wrench. If I feel like it, this wrench could hit you, very solidly, in the dingleberries.

Ravs: You wouldn’t dare! You’d miss them.

Daltos: True, and so would everybody.

Ravs: Anyways, time’s a wasting. Let’s get to business.

Daltos: Oh, finally.

Ravs: I want to borrow the bike.

Daltos: What bike?

Ravs: The one Arsenal lent you two weeks ago.

Daltos: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Ravs: The one hidden underneath the black tarp behind shipping container number eight, just over there.

Daltos: …

Ravs: Don’t get mad at Arsenal, he just wanted to help me.

Daltos: I’m not. It’s technically his shitty bike that he brought onboard. The crew and I are just fixing it up for him, for whenever he gets his new leg put in.

Ravs: He said I could borrow it.

Daltos: Alright, if he said so, then I’ll get it ready. How long do you need it for?

Ravs: For a couple of weeks. I’ll bring it back in perfect condition.

Daltos: Yeah, right.

Ravs: Come on, you trust me more than that.

Daltos: I trust you like I trust Boner and my chocolate coins.

Ravs: Great!

Daltos: That is, not at all.

Ravs: Rude. How did you end up collecting chocolate coins anyway?

Daltos: Arsenal once switched out all my cash, I found out, got mad, he gave it all back but refuses to take back all the chocolate coins since they’re ‘non refundable’.

Ravs: Do you eat them?

Daltos: They’re priceless, so no. That said, want one?

Ravs: (laughing)

– / / NOW ENDING ECHO LOG. / / –

\--

After all that publicity, Rythian loses himself in work for a solid, tiring week until Ravs shows up to drag him out of his room. Larry Robert leads Junior by the hand (claw, rather) to the safety of Lalna’s laboratory. He has to remember to collect Junior or else they’ll play patty cake until someone stops them (the last one being Lalna, during a bathroom run).

“You’ve been shut in your room again, that’s no good,” Ravs chastises. “Junior needs to share!” Being chastised by Ravs is like having a living, breathing, walking and talking guardian angel deliver a well-meaning lecture that actually sticks (for most).

Now that he mentions it, there’s a crick in Rythian’s neck that he’s sure is one of his back bones wedging itself sideways and is determined to stay that way. 

Rythian massages his shoulder, blinking as his eyes refocus on Ravs. He’s been staring at a screen, skipping sleep (but not naptime with Junior, that’d be monstrous, and he really doesn’t want to get Minty’s bad side) to work on his next project.

On some level, submitting his thesis wouldn’t immediately end everything. It’d just meant throwing his findings into the collective ocean, and starting a tsunami of cascading inquiries. He has fifteen different tabs to sort through, depending on what his HUD deems important business, not important business, Vault business, frigate business, personal business, friend business, and so on.

Ravs remembering to check up on him is deeply appreciated. At the moment, Ravs is dragging him through the mess hall towards the cafeteria. People step out of his way; Parvis and Will wave at him as they pass.

“What would I do without you?” Rythian dryly asks, waving back.

“What’d you want?” Honeydew stands on a stool behind the glass, wielding a mean looking fork. A hairnet keeps his brilliant beard contained. His horned hat is also dressed in a hairnet of its own.

“Flatcakes, the sweet option,” Ravs orders, smiling. “Please.”

Honeydew blushes, plating up said order and sliding it across the top of the glass counter. Ravs leaves a tip, making him gush profuse thanks. He steers Rythian towards the side of the hall, claiming a table.

Ravs places the plate of freshly made flatcakes topped with golden, dripping syrup in front of him. He hands Rythian a fork. “I know you haven’t been eating either.”

“Are you stalking me?” Rythian prods at the flatcakes, marveling at how fluffy and warm they are. It’s obviously Nilesy’s recipe. Ravs’ flatcakes have a particular edge to them where he likes to let it brown a little longer than generally advised. Nobody has the heart to tell Ravs that it’s not caramelising the pancakes.

“Nope, I’m just worrying about you.” Ravs doesn’t move to eat. Rythian indulges his hunger until the entire plate’s cleared. “Some folks wanted to pass on a message to you.”

“What message?” Ravs hands a Rythian a transparent sheet of folded paper no larger than an envelope. Rythian takes one look at the sender and seal, then grabs the envelope and flings it into his inventory. “Nope!”

“Hey now, that’s no way to treat fanmail,” Ravs observes. He edges closer. “Who’s it from?”

“Family,” Rythian flatly says, dropping his fork. He moves to stand. 

Ravs moves with him. “If it’s family, they must want to hear from you.”

“Well,  _ I _ don’t.”

“At least read the letter before you bin it or something!”

Rythian gives Ravs a piercing look. “Ravs.” Ravs stares him down, his features imploring. “Did you open my mail?”

“Hey now, you can’t blame me for being curious when you’ve never gotten a single bit of mail back on Pandora!” Ravs defensively says. He sags slightly though. “Alright, sorry. I couldn’t help it.”

“Don’t remind me of how lonely I was,” Rythian says, sighing. He nearly said ‘am’ there. “It’s fine. It probably isn’t anything important.”

“How can you say that?” Ravs is horrified. 

Rythian doesn’t get why. In a second, he does, because Ravs was unwillingly separated from his mother and kept in touch with her no matter what. Compared to that, Rythian might as well be the kind of uncle that his cousins talk about as a convenient example of ‘what happens if you don’t listen‘ to their kids within his own family.

“My relationship with my family is tumultuous, and is liable to end in me cutting off all contact for the fifth time,” Rythian summarises. He doesn’t mention the argument preceding his sudden move to Pandora, and how they’d probably thought that he’s in another one of his ‘silent treatment’ moods.

“Nobody can go that long without sending a Mercenary Day card.” It’s nice of Ravs to be this optimistic. It slightly softens the ire Rythian will always hold towards his family.

Still unconvinced, Rythian flattens his tone. “It took me two months to convince my family to let me study my degrees, and even then, they kept trying to convince me to change to something more ‘worthwhile’, so.” He drops his hands from when they’d briefly rose and curled up to form quotation marks.

“That was a long time ago,” Ravs points out. “They might have changed, so just have a look. If you don’t like it, I’ll burn it with my junk fanmail.” He still gets fanmail. Rythian refrains from commenting.

“Fine, but only because you’re using that look on me.” Rythian spawns the envelope and flicks it open. Blah blah blah, there’s the usual crap about ‘how much they’ve missed him, where’s he been, how is he doing, why hasn’t he visited in years’, that comprises the mind numbing interrogation that Rythian despises that’s a part of having such a large and extended nosy family.

“Go to the very bottom,” Ravs pointedly hints when it doesn’t look like he’s going to continue reading.

“Great, there’s a family reunion and they want me to be there to celebrate my return,” Rythian dully reads. “RSVP by next week.” Maybe he can bribe Zylus into leaving the system by then.

“You going?”

“No,” Rythian says. “I’d rather meet up with my family under more private circumstances. Or not at all.”

“Well, about that–“ Ravs rubs at the back of his neck, avoiding meeting Rythian’s eyes.

Rythian narrows said eyes until they’re simply slits of concentrated blue. “Ravs.”

“That’s my name,” Ravs says, laughing nervously after.

“Did you already respond that I’m going?”

“Not yet! Look, you’re always cooped up in the frigate, so I just thought that going to see your family would be a great opportunity for you to clean things up with them!”

Rythian stares at Ravs. His explosion has a grain of truth to it though. He has spent a ridiculous amount of time working, even if he’s supposed to be taking it easy (doctor’s orders, after spending two days wide awake and empty stomached).

Being the kid stuck in a corner with their nose in a book at these gatherings left visiting family members with the impression that he’s something of a recluse, or a bit of a ‘social newbie’.

“I’m canceling!” Rythian opens up the envelope, preparing to send the notice. Ravs grabs his hand. Rythian’s hand flails, trying to shake him off. Ravs hangs on.

“Wait, wait, what if I went with you?” Rythian’s sullen, moody silence speaks for itself. “What if me  _ and _ Teep tagged along as moral support?” Ravs presses.

“Are you seriously thinking of asking  _ Teep _ to meet normal people, who’re also my estranged family, with you in tow?” The start of a laugh makes his chest muscles spasm before it emerges, fully formed, in a disbelieving chuckle. Ravs doesn’t join in. “Wait, you’re serious.” Rythian stops, his mouth slightly open.

“Yes, I am,” Ravs says, firmly. “Family’s important.”

“To you, maybe.”

“Look, surely there’s one person who you’d like to see again, amongst everyone,” Ravs says, in a honeyed tone that Rythian recognises as the one he uses when he’s trying to get an extra tip or two out of a paying customer.

He has a point. Rythian sits down and mutinously prods his mind into recollection, mentally searching his family tree for someone. There’s two people. He won’t name their names to stop Ravs from being smug.

Rythian lowers his hand. Big mistake. Ravs presses his thumb to the  _ other _ notice. Mouth open, Rythian stares in abject horror as ‘thanks for the RSVP!’ flashes.

“Ravs!” Rythian flings the accursed envelope into his inventory. The bench he’s at scrapes the floor as he shoves back from the table, beginning to walk in a panicked circle. “Why would you–“ His hands snap to Ravs, then at the floor. He can’t even form proper words, he’s too  _ enraged. _ People around them avert their glances.

Ravs quirks his mouth into a rueful smile, placing his hands on his hips. He’s not sorry, and it pisses Rythian off. 

“I couldn’t let you throw away another opportunity.” Ravs winks. “I’ll let you swing at me if you want.”

Rythian nearly asks what the other opportunity was, and then it hits him. It smacks into his mind. He’s standing on the pier of a Pandoran coast, holding a wretched Vault Key in his hand, attempting to discard it in a fit of self-loathing. Ravs stopped him then, and Ravs is stopping him now.

Just like that, his rage dissipates. The horrible urge to stick his fingernails into Ravs’ eyeballs leaves, too. Rythian breaks his pacing to sit down again. “I want you actually wear a shirt this time.”

“No shirt can contain these guns.” Ravs flexes one of his arms, all the muscles along his biceps bunching up. Rythian closes his eyes and wonders if he’s opened up a door that he’s going to regret opening up.

\--

Two days later after receiving Ravs’ message, Teep arrives. Rythian and Ravs wait in one of the cargo bays specially fitted to receive ships. Greenman docks. Teep emerges, dressed in the same gear as always: combat boots, gloves, cargo pants, a hooded jacket and the typical face wrappings, complete with high tech snow goggles. They’re missing the sling that their broken arm was in.

They slouch over to Rythian and Ravs. It’s good to see them again. Teep stops half a metre away, watching the two with casual interest.

Ravs immediately ensnares them in a welcoming bear hug. They permit it for exactly ten seconds before trying to pinch one of Ravs’ pressure points on one shoulder. Rythian smothers a laugh. Teep pats down their rumpled jacket as Ravs grins.

Grinning as well, Rythian holds out his arms. Teep hugs him for all of five seconds, then backs off. “K, no more sappiness, Panda’s already filled up my yearly quota, and I got a rep to maintain,” They sign. “I can’t believe you two already miss me. It hasn’t even been four months.”

“You’re an easy person to miss,” Ravs says. He sighs. “I miss your banter, your voracious appetite, your surprise innuendos, and those  _ incredible _ teeth–“

“It sounds like you just miss me because of my body,” Teep signs. “Come on, I thought I left a better impression than that.”

“Did something happen between you two that I’m not aware of?” Rythian swings his inquiring gaze between the two. They shouldn’t be this easygoing around each other.

“We fucked,” Ravs sheepishly admits, at the same time Teep signs.

“We fucked,” Teep bluntly signs, at the same time Ravs talks.

Rythian raises his hand to point at Ravs, then at Teep. Then back again. He drops his hand, turning to walk a little ways away. Two seconds later, he drops to the floor, curling up on the spot.

“I think we broke Rythian,” Teep observes.

“He’ll get over it. I think.” Rav collects Rythian, slinging him over one shoulder. Rythian remains limp. “By the way, you owe me fifty bucks for Panda’s bar snack tab.” He holds out his hand for said money.

Teep gives Ravs’ waiting hand what Ravs feels is a disdainful look. “Panda can pay their own tab, they’re pulling in enough to pay off that tab a thousand times.”

“That’s not what Panda said last time they were here!” Ravs insists, moving to block Teep’s path.

“Panda can  _ suck my dick _ for trying to dump their tab on me.” Teep makes a rude gesture for emphasis, stepping around Ravs. “Go take it up with them.”

_ “Or.” _ At the way Teep’s head sharply tilts, Ravs says as they follow them, “Hear me out, you pay, and I get back fifty bucks from Panda that I pass it to you. Foolproof!”

“That’s not how tabs work.” Teep pauses as they unlock their room, letting Ravs (who’s still carrying Rythian) in first. “You’ll just keep the fifty bucks.”

“I won’t!” Ravs says, mock wounded. “Do you really trust me that little?” He drops Rythian onto Teep’s bed. Rythian bounces, settling a second later. He faces the wall.

“I trust you with a lot of things, but wandering tab money’s not one of them,” Teep signs, ducking off to borrow Rythian’s bathroom. 

Ravs picks up one of the month old gun magazines on their desk. He’s careful not to dislodge the sticky note on the front advising ‘take a look at page nineteen, it’s good shite’ in Panda’s abysmal handwriting. He sits down on the bed next to Rythian, absently flicking through the magazine.

Rythian awakens on Teep’s bed, rolling so that he’s on his back and staring at the ceiling. He lifts his head. “Are we in Teep’s room?”

“We’re in Teep’s room,” Ravs confirms, without looking up.

“Why didn’t you tell me you two…?” Rythian makes an attempt to sign ‘fuck’ but can’t bring himself to do so, his hands flopping back onto the bed. He can’t give it the same flair as Teep does. He’s not hurt or angry that they didn’t think to mention it to him. It’s the part where they actually did do it is what baffles him. Opposites attracted, but this is a special exception.

“To be honest, I forgot we did,” Ravs says, trading the magazine for another one. “Until Teep reminded me.” He lowers it to give Rythian a raised eyebrow. “Do you have a problem with it?”

“I know it’s not any of my business,” Rythian hastily says. “It’s just–“

> rythian just bc im not as super horny as ravs doesnt mean that i dont like or avoid sex

“Hey! I’m not always super horny now! I’ve matured! You can ask Daltos, Arsenal and Minty about it!”

> sex is fine

> its just that i can live without it compared to the usual pop

> his ‘offer’ is convenient for people like me who need to blow off some steam every once in a while

> unlike panda who thinks sex is gross bc of cooties and its messy but thats irrelevant

“Is it serious?” Rythian ventures.

> banging ravs doesnt mean i want to get mushy with him

> ill leave that to you

Teep returns, adjusting their face wrappings and hood. They watch Rythian splutter as Ravs laughs.

“This is your cue to ask me out on a date,” Ravs suggests, nudging Rythian’s leg.

“You don’t want to, Ravs hasn’t got any good things about him worth admiring,” Teep signs, sitting on the other end of the bed.

“Sure I do! Rythian, what’s my best feature?” Saved from having to ask Ravs on a date (he would love to, but not right now) but put on the spot, Rythian’s mind freezes.

Where does Rythian begin? Ravs’ chiseled abs? His gorgeous hazel but green flecked eyes? His incredible biceps? His statue worthy face (scars and all)? His herculean, large but gentle, calloused hands? His permanent stubble which he wouldn’t mind the feel of on his own body?

“Ass,” Rythian’s mouth eloquently says while his mind is suitably occupied.

Ravs bursts into amused laughter, slapping his knee. “Of course! My ass!”

“Great, look at what you did, now he’ll never shut up about his ass,” Teep signs, deadpan in spite of never saying a single word.

Rythian stubbornly keeps his mouth shut, wanting to lie down and face the wall again. He hadn’t meant to say ‘ass’, but that’d somehow come out anyway. “We were supposed to be talking about my family reunion,” He reminds.

“Oh yes, you were about to draw us a family tree,” Ravs says, not minding the obvious change in topic. “I’m joking,” He warmly says at the skittish look Rythian throws him.

“There’s an actual copy of my family tree in Hecate’s genealogical records.” Rythian flicks through said archive, locating the file. He shares it with Teep and Ravs.

“Cor, that’s a lot of branches.” Ravs strokes his chin, marveling at the twenty or so limbs sprouting from the core.

“I have a large family, and everybody’s sending at least one relative over to Hecate.” That’s the best way to describe his dysfunctional, snobby mess of a family.

“You should see Panda’s family tree, it’s way worse than this.” With a finger, Teep traces down one line sprawling off to the side. One tip ends at Rythian. “You’re still here. Apparently, you died ten years ago.”

Rythian snorts. “I see they haven’t bothered to remove that yet.”

“That’s something to bring up and get fixed.” Ravs pushes a file at Rythian. “Here’s mine. It’s practically a hedge compared to yours.”

“Yours is actually quite neat. It’s nice.” Rythian spends a few minutes trying to find Ravs. “Huh, you’re an only child.”

“My ma didn’t want any more kids after my da fucked off,” Ravs explains in a matter of fact tone. “It was just shortly after caber tossing was dropped from the intergalactic roster of medal worthy sports. She would have been my planet’s best thrower.” At Rythian’s expression, he rushes to soothe him. “It’s old history, don’t worry!”

Rythian’s never asked, so Ravs had never told. There’s a lot he still doesn’t know about Ravs. “Right.”

Ravs smiles at him. “You know that you can ask me anything, anytime, right?” There’s a sincere lack of flirting. Rythian’s touched, because Ravs would do anything he asked for, and so much more.

“Not in my room, you aren’t,” Teep dryly interrupts before Rythian can respond. “Make with the googly eyes elsewhere.”

“We weren’t going to start making out on your bed!” Rythian huffs, his blush returning. “We’re not animals, Teep.”

“So, no biting?” Ravs innocently asks. Rythian makes a strangled sound of mirth at that.

“Get your mind out of the gutter, you thot,” Teep signs. “And check out Rythian’s parents.” Rythian already knows what Teep’s spotted as Ravs goes back into his HUD.

“Your parents are a  _ threesome?” _ Ravs boggles, his eyes bright. No lewdness, just awe. “My ma used to talk about finding me another parent for a role model, but never got around to it.” He sighs. “Think she had enough of romance after that.”

“Yeah, what about it?” Rythian mildly says, looking up from his nails.

“I want to meet them,” Ravs says with considerable enthusiasm. “I want to meet the people who brought Rythian into this world, and personally thank them.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Rythian says in a carefully controlled voice. “I think sometimes they regret it, what with my six other siblings.” He hadn’t been the most well behaved kid either. The most read, certainly.

“Nonsense! I’m sure they’re very proud of you, after your world record breaking presentation, and finally getting your  _ second _ degree.” Ravs still hasn’t stopped being amazed at that, as with those on  _ The Blackrock’s _ passenger list who cared.

“Some of my relatives have five degrees,” Rythian says in an attempt to be humble. He shakes his head. “It’s not a big deal in my family.”

“Well, it should be!” Ravs insists. “Not just anybody can get two degrees!”

“If you had a PhD in vault hunting, you’d have earned it years ago,” Teep adds. “Let’s see if anybody in your family has one of those.” Rythian looks at Teep, trying to figure out if they mean it. They stare at him. Clearly they do. “Are you bringing Junior, your one and only adopted child?” Teep asks. “Add them to the family tree.”

“Absolutely not,” Rythian replies testily amidst Ravs’ surprised laughter. “I don’t know how they’ll react to an alien grandchild, or want to find out.”

\--

Dionysus is a lush, tropical paradise compared to the desolate barren, dust bowl that’s Pandora. Ravs booked a shuttle a month in advance. Ravs had done him the favour of surviving slash meeting Rythian’s side of the family (and endured far too many invasive and ludicrous questions about their shared history). It’s time for him to repay Ravs’ never-ending kindness. 

Teep’s skipping this one. Flying halfway across the universe to be scouting backup is a good excuse to avoid attending another close friend’s family reunion. Teep did ask for pictures though, as proof of Rythian’s attendance.

Not about to deny Teep the pleasure of willingly humiliating himself in front of people he’s never met before, and of course, potential blackmail material, Rythian agrees. That includes Ravs’ famous mother.

_ The Blackrock _ is currently anchored to a fuelling station, docked and waiting. Arsenal gave the deadline for the latest return being two weeks; he has to sort out ‘resupplying and all that boring shit’ in the meantime.

“I won’t leave without you two, though, especially our favourite man Ravs.” Arsenal waggled his eyebrows and winked.

Rythian’s leaving Junior with Nilesy this time. He’ll miss Junior, but he did swear about returning as soon as he could, and he’ll call every night.

Settled in the waiting shuttle, Rythian naps. Ravs is restless with excitement, peering out the closest window. He jiggles one knee, the loose flap of one boot bobbing up and down with the motion. Rythian would like to say something reassuring but he’s asleep before he can, napping.

He wakes to his shoulder being gently shaken by Ravs, who makes a beeline for the door without waiting for Rythian. Zylus drops the two off at the local spaceport. He bids the two ‘safe travels’, waiting for the supply crates to get loaded.

Ravs and Rythian take a flying taxi to the northern highlands, the ancestral home of Ravs’ clan. Rythian’s family is practically tame compared to Ravs’ clan. Ravs’ clan is throwing a party just for him returning. Relatives will be pouring in from every corner of Dionysus.

The highlands are cloaked in fog, nestled deep in the craggy, sleepy mountains. Rythian observes squat, stone buildings camouflaged as part of the rocks, smoky lights hidden behind tinted glass. The taxi cruises past a pitstop, a picturesque utopia advertised as a tourist hotspot. Dionysian wineries flash advertisements on their boards. Hydroponic domes encase miles of vine beneath shimmering forcefields. Guard robots patrol each corridor, flashlights and Vladof guns bobbing with every mechanical step.

Ravs dozes during the ride, his face propped on one hand. It would have been cute, but Rythian senses an underlying anxiousness in the way Ravs stays silent. He’s usually so chatty that this strikes Rythian as out of character.

Technically, Ravs shouldn’t have even been able to set foot on Dionysus. Over ten years ago, he’d broken out of his Pandoran jail for illegal moonshining. Through the miracles that’s Nanosounds invoking some obtuse clauses from her summoned army of lawyers, his sentence is now nonexistent. 

Ravs drank exorbitantly that day, pushing his tolerance to the max. At Minty’s unsubtle prodding (literally a sharp poke in the back), Rythian voluntarily escorted him back to his room. The walk together was silent. Ravs hadn’t invited him in but he’d lingered a little longer in the doorway, watching Rythian with longing until Rythian fled, terrified of getting Ravs’ hopes up again.

Rythian pays the driver, mentally scheduling a return trip a day earlier than Arsenal’s deadline. It’s a little more expensive but this way, if anything happens, they can be gone before the two weeks is fully up. He also figures that they have to be back on the frigate before it leaves without them, just in case Arsenal’s not joking.

“This fog is ridiculous, it’s not usually this thick,” Ravs mutters under his breath. He’s wearing his leather jacket, his kilt swishing against his legs, already picking out the path upwards. He stretches, breathing in lungfuls of mountain air.

Rythian hikes along next to him. The air’s thinner but crisper and cooler. Rythian tugs his coat closer to his body, pulling his scarf up.

Metal lanterns hang from wooden posts mark turns and other paths. The bulbs inside pulsate as the two pass by. Ravs doesn’t need to consult the signs, navigating from memory alone. Rythian wipes his forehead, following him as best as he can.

Ravs has shed his nervousness, slowing to an easy walk. Rythian’s glad for it; he’s not in the habit of gallivanting all over mountains in his spare time. While hunting Vaults improved his general fitness, mountains still wreck his stamina.

“Where are we going?” Rythian asks, trying not to let his breathlessness show.

“To my clan’s main hall.” Ravs smiles. “All the mountains on this side belong to my ma, thanks to gran and granny. Nobody else can live here without her say-so, and she’s broken noses for it before.” He indicates the steep slopes all around him. “Someday, I’ll get all this from her.”

An idyllic life that doesn’t involve Vault Hunting’s never occurred to Rythian. He stops there and then, boots crunching on the droves of pebbles underfoot. Ravs keeps going, ignorant of Rythian’s bleak thoughts about the future.

When Ravs stepped onto the frigate, he’d done so without announcing his intentions. Rythian didn’t ask, assuming that Ravs is tagging along for the ride and the thrills. He’d never thought Ravs would want a quieter life. 

Ravs asking him to accompany him to Dionysus had been a surprise.

He finally notices that Rythian hasn’t moved a single step. He swiftly retraces his steps. “Rythian? Did you get something in your boot?”

“Do you want to stay on Dionysus?” Rythian watches Ravs turn to face him. “With your mother?”

Ravs effortlessly shrugs. “Dunno.” He sheepishly grins like Rythian’s just asked for spare change, and not a life-changing question.

Rythian folds his hands into fists. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He demands, his voice thinner than usual.

“Well, I thought I’d never leave Dionysus.” Ravs’ voice is painfully level. He pauses. “But I also thought I’d never leave Pandora.”

“If you’re sticking around just because of me, don’t.” Rythian sighs. “Almost all my future plans revolve around Vaults, which aren’t exactly good for long term goals.”

“‘Almost’ is good enough for me.” Ravs leans in close, wearing a grin bordering on a smirk. “I’d stick around anyway. Besides, what’s to say that it’s not the other way around?”

“You’re not why I stayed on the frigate!” Rythian’s voice carries. Abashed, he lowers it. But Ravs is one main reason why he chose to leave his room rather than holing up inside of it between stops, voluntarily isolated from his fellow passengers by his inner burdens.

“Good to know.” Ravs considers him with an amused tilt of his head. He smiles. “Now let’s go and meet my family. I’m sure they’ll like you.” One of his hands steers Rythian in the small of the back.

Rythian’s own family had taken a little too much of a liking to Ravs. With Teep, they avoided commenting on within earshot, after Teep had impressed all the small children with a sufficient bout of ‘knock the craft beer cans off the back fence with pebbles’, and nailed a toss into Ravs’ drink from a hundred metres away. Teep had been surprisingly reserved in spite of their known dislike of large, inquisitive gatherings. They hadn’t even broken anyone’s fingers.

He’d eventually found Teep nosing through his old bookshelves. They’d helped themself to some of his old pulp fiction novels, with his permission. He hadn’t minded. It’s not like he’ll read those books again so soon. He has the forty-one books from Nanosounds’ Mother to keep him busy for a while yet.

By the time Ravs and Teep left with Rythian, Ravs is on a first name basis with immediate family, and Teep has half of Rythian’s archives hidden in their inventory. He appreciates the two putting up with the entire, awkward mess. They two effortlessly deflected all questions about how they’d met Rythian and their own criminal histories.

Rythian glossed over his trip to Pandora. Atlas’ demise at Hyperion’s hands isn’t strictly hidden knowledge but his family wanted the inside scoop, straight from a credible source: him. They already have their own theories about it. All the same, he’d rather not indulge in their little games of trying to hear about why he took so long to come back from a simple ‘field trip gone wrong’ and so on.

If someone had invented a truth potion, his drink would have been spiked thrice by the time dinner rolled around. Joke’s on them. Rythian avoided all and any alcohol offered, defaulting to his flask (filled with fruit juice). Ravs took whatever Rythian declined, showing off his incredible tolerance. Teep discretely tipped all their drinks into any plant pots they passed.

Anyway, Rythian’s following Ravs. He refuses to allow Ravs’ hand to hustle him along like he might get lost or change his mind at the last second.

The path thins, merging with grass. Before Rythian rests a stone castle surrounded by a wooden gate. There’s a moat too, murky water sloshing against the mossy stones. It’s right out of a picture book. Rythian admires the intimidating latticework of grimy, wooden spikes decorating the flooded moat, missing Ravs approach the closed gate.

Ravs cups his hands to his mouth. He promptly screams a traditional greeting in Dionysian. Rythian almost jumps out of his skin, stopping his instinctive teleportation.

The gate creaks forward. It drops with the rankling of chains slipping free from their latches. The ground shakes when the edge thumps onto the ground. Ravs strides over it. Each plank is as thick as Ravs himself, and as long as a Drifter’s body from head to toe. Rythian jogs after him. It rises after he and Ravs cross the threshold, chains clanking. As his eyes adjust to the torchlight, he sees a crowd kilted people waiting. One heads the loose semi-circle.

Ravs pauses in front of them. It’s a woman, short brown hair shot through with white, heavily squinting at Ravs over half-moon spectacles. A knitted shawl doesn’t hide her muscled arms, one tattooed in flowing script to her wrist, or the faded scars adorning the other.

She starts gabbling away, the hand not gripping a bone white cane jabbing at Ravs’ chest. She shuffles forward, shaking her fist. Her handsome face is screwed up in an emotion Rythian can’t place until it creases into an unmistakable smile. 

Ravs stoops, picking her up in one bold move.

“Ma!” He exclaims. She’s so tiny, he’s able to lift her without breaking a sweat. She pats the top of his shoulder, her face still creased into a smile that shows off all her fake golden teeth.

At last, Ravs sets her down with utmost care. She sees Rythian watching the reunion. Rythian swallows. He’s heard her voice before, but he’d always dodged all offers of introductions. Again, she addresses Ravs, nodding at Rythian. Her accent is too thick for Rythian to understand. People are whispering, pointing and staring, probably wondering who he is.

It’s not a problem for Ravs though. He pats Rythian’s shoulder, dragging him closer. “This is Rythian! He’s my friend! You know, the one who saved Pandora and who gave that famous speech about Vaults!”

Rythian wants to correct him. Ravs did the saving, not him. He’d been dead weight in that last battle. He just nods, giving a silly little wave of his hand. 

“Hello,” He politely says, nodding in the crowd’s general direction.

That’s when the rest of Ravs’ family moves in a single wave towards him and Ravs. He finds himself being passed from one person to another, his hand pumped up and down, faces blurring into one, everyone’s accented voices a distant murmur. He can’t understand anyone, and is completely reliant on Ravs for what to do.

Somehow, he’s sitting next to Ravs in a hall. Ravs is more animated than he was on the ride over, happily sharing stories of this and that. Rythian can’t resist listening in. 

Ravs’ obvious caginess about his bandit past stopped people prying, but he’s now opening up colourful chapters of his life that was once a mystery. Rythian doesn’t know if it’s for him or Ravs’ family’s benefit. He makes an effort to listen in, awed that Ravs has that kind of bravery to confront his past so casually.

There’s booze placed by his hand that he didn’t ask for. Rythian quietly switches out his foaming flagon for a plain glass of water. His alcohol deprived brain wistfully sighs. Ravs misses the discrete switch, loudly describing their first meeting between plates of food. He gestures, hands motioning after every mouthful.

It’s good, rich food, Dionysian fare. There’s more meat than he’s ever seen, and he’s seen a few fair bandit feasts in his lifetime. This feast could have fed one of Daltos’ regiments. Rythian can only handle almost one whole plate before his stomach whimpers at the mere thought of one more mouthful. People around him are on their third plate, stacking empties besides them that others cart off.

Rythian shakes his head when he’s offered another loaded plate, content to listen to Ravs’ wild tales. 

Someone asks about Ravs’ famous offer. Ravs looks at Rythian. Winking, he earnestly responds, “Never expired, for some.”

Rythian knocks back the glass of water to save himself from being expected to respond. Ravs is thriving on the attention being lavished on him, entirely in his element. 

Guilty with wanting to be free of this mess, Rythian nonetheless, persists in staying. Ravs eventually catches him stifling a yawn; he smoothly wraps up the reunion dinner, citing spacelag for calling it an early night. He hugs his ma one last time, promising that he’ll be there at breakfast, on the dot. Rythian says ‘goodnight’ as well before fleeing with Ravs.

Rythian’s given a room opposite Ravs’ one. Ravs drops him off at his room and kisses him ‘goodnight’ on the cheek. After climbing into the bed, Rythian pushes a couple of messages to Nilesy to pass onto Junior, not wanting to bother him with a proper call since it’s late. He falls asleep a few minutes after he’s made himself comfortable.

Ravs wakes him up at dawn, knocking. He’s already fully dressed and wide awake, energized by a mysterious force that always eludes Rythian. He bears fresh coffee, the way Rythian prefers it. No secret milk or sugar added to dull the black bitterness. He invites Rythian down to breakfast. Rythian accepts, handing the empty cup back to Ravs.

Once Ravs is gone, Rythian fumbles with the unfamiliar bathroom but successfully figures out where everything is, reviving himself with a hot shower. He’s surprised at the lack of mental lag, and is curiously anticipating what Ravs is planning.

Breakfast is sausages, fried eggs, and waffles. Rythian manages almost a full plate again, much to Ravs and his family’s approval. 

He gets to look around without being obstructed by so many people. The hall is quiet, only a few people present to eat breakfast. Ravs’ ma is seated in her high backed chair (more like a throne), furred blankets covering her lap. She takes porridge with a helping of honey. She gabbles enthusiastically at Ravs the whole time. He answers back with the same energy.

Rythian sticks his nose into a book he brought along for the purposes of deflecting conversation. Of course he’s listening in, tuned for just his name. Otherwise, he can’t even work up the nerve to have a conversation with Ravs’ ma or the relatives around him.

There’s a bronze statue of a Dionysian god set at the back of the hall, just behind Rav’s ma. It’s a handsome statue, almost as tall as Parvis’ ridiculous golden one back at the Bloodshot Dam. A robe loosely twines off the statue’s body, winding around their waist to billow downwards. A jug pours liquid. The statue sits atop a wine barrel, an uncapped flask at their hip continuing to dispense more liquid.

Religion is so far from Rythian’s mind that he never makes the connection with how the statue’s face bears a resemblance to Ravs.

His second coffee in hand, he follows Ravs out back, past rows of closed sheds and fenced pastures filled with grazing, snouted animals with shaggy, woollen hides braided into intricate shapes. Multiple horns curl into the air, like dried tree branches. 

A dusting of fog fills the highlands, beginning to clear as the sun rises.

He’s hustled into a wired room. Ravs makes a show of closing the door, moving around Rythian to  _ another _ door, also wired. Rythian steps through that one, having to duck to avoid smacking his head into the wooden frame.

Rythian stares at the aviary he’s standing in. It smells of sawdust, bird droppings and old straw. He protectively pulls his purple scarf closer to himself, masking himself from the combined smells. A hand also goes over the top of his steaming mug.

Curious shadows flit above and around him. His head almost brushes the top of the coop. Ravs is already reaching into the rafters, soon murmuring to a warm bundle of feathers happily nestling on his palm. Grinning, he presents Rythian what’s being gently held between both of his (glorious) hands.   
  
“That’s a pigeon.” Rythian warily eyes it. His past experiences with Pandora’s wildlife (and Arsenal’s hungry kraggons) make him suspicious of anything that’s vaguely animal shaped. Doubly so if it’s winged, and staring at him with intent.

  
“It’s a  _ sexy _ pigeon.” Ravs’ giant grin is implacable. “Relax, he won’t harm you. This is Reginald the third, a big prize winner. He’s a bit small, so Ma calls him ‘wee sexy Reggie’ for short.”

  
Rythian accepts this unexpected introduction with the distinctive air of someone who takes a second to let it sink into his brain. When it does, he doubles over, wheezing in laughter. He despawns his mug in the nick of time. 

“You’re kidding me!”

Amused, Ravs watches him. The pigeon serenely coos, tilting its feathery head to peer at both, still content with being handled. 

“Would you like to hold wee sexy Reggie?” Ravs lets his natural accent bleed into his words, inducing another laughing fit from Rythian. Rythian shakes his head, lost for words until the novelty subsides. “No? Fair enough.”

“What are you going to do with a sexy pigeon?” Rythian straightens up, lungs heaving back to normal. Ravs strokes the pigeon with a finger. The pigeon melts under the head scratches, cooing appreciatively.

“We’re having a time honoured Dionysian competition. May the best doo win.” Ravs carries the pigeon outside. Its head perks up when the sunlight hits it. Rythian follows him, carefully closing the double set of doors so that nothing escapes. “I used to do this after school with the other kids. Let’s see if we still got the moves.”

Once far enough, Ravs waits. Eventually, the muffled peal of a horn blows. Ravs releases the pigeon from between his hands. It flaps into the sky, chasing an invisible lure. Rythian glances around him, spotting other kilted people release pigeons all over the fields.

The fog’s completely gone, leaving behind a splendid, golden-green, lush view of the highlands. Ravs holds a hand up to his eyes, putting one hand on his hip. He’s traded his kilt for a newer, fancier one. It lacks the evident wear and tear his other ones had.

“Ma told me this one’s the great-great-great grandson of my old doo. He used to bring all the doos to the yard. I miss him, but his grandson’s a dead ringer for his looks and size. Very friendly too.”

“Just like you,” Rythian dryly says, which makes Ravs laugh. Yes, Rythian’s seen all the family portraits hanging in the halls. 

He sips his coffee, watching the birds turn and spiral through the air. His coffee also almost leaves his mouth when Ravs cups his hands to his mouth and coos loudly at the sky.

Ravs’ pigeon soon returns with several other pigeons in tow, flapping down to Ravs. It lands on Ravs’ outstretched hand, cooing, puffing up its chest feathers. Finding that perch occupied, the other pigeons perch on Ravs’ shoulders, snuggling up against each other. One settles on his head like it’s a nest.

The sight of Ravs covered in birds is unforgettable. A sketch wouldn’t do it justice. Rythian snaps a photo, slipping it into his secret album and hundreds of other pictures taken on the fly.

\--

Ravs’ stay on Dionysus doesn’t last for longer than two weeks. By the end, Rythian possesses more knowledge of Dionysus than any veteran tourist, and not nearly enough about Ravs. Ravs’ ma doted nonstop on him, and he can almost understand her speech if he concentrates. He almost kicks his old self for being so intimidated by her when she’s a big softie just like her son. 

Ravs departs with a suitcase full of spare clothes (a bunch of new kilts included, but still no pants, when Rythian had asked which he apparently ‘didn’t believe in’), a batch of new starter cultures for his ongoing mission to stock one of every booze in the universe for his space bar, a firm promise to bring Rythian back someday, and an old favourite: snacks. He’d offered Rythian some pickled haggis out of a dinky glass jar. Rythian politely declined.

Zylus picks up the pair in a shuttle. He’s happy to meet them, and picks up on the two wanting a bit of peace and quiet for now. Rythian watches Ravs watching the view of the planet shrink as the shuttle weaves its way through atmospheric traffic, back to the waiting frigate.

All the fresh wistfulness in Ravs’ expression makes Rythian turn his head away. Ravs’ ma had made it abundantly clear that she intends to see her son again. He has no idea about Ravs’ other parent; Ravs never elaborated, aside from cryptically mentioning that ‘they buggered off before I was born when my ma didn’t make it big in caber toss.’

Sighing like he’s responsible for taking Ravs away from his mother, Rythian’s head meets the glass on the window with a dull thunk. Zylus doesn’t notice, keeping an eye on the sky ahead of him. Ravs does, leaning across his seat.

“Are you okay?” He asks. The genuine concern in his eyes is too real for Rythian’s liking.

Rythian inclines his head so that he’s not forced to stare back. “I’m fine,” He mutters.

“Airsick?” Ravs easily reaches over his chair, grabbing a paper bag and pulling it apart so that it sits, ready for action.

“I’m not going to pass out or hurl,” Rythian firmly says, pushing the bag away. 

Grinning, Ravs leaves it on Rythian’s lap. “Just in case. You never know, with these things.”

There’s a lot Rythian doesn’t know about, regarding a lot of things. He makes up his mind to see how long it’ll be before Ravs does anything about the internalised mess of feelings Rythian has about him, and Rythian’s stark lack of plans to untangle them.

When Rythian returns, he teleports straight into his room with his own share of goods. He barely misses Ravs’ stunned (and hurt) expression. Floating off his bed, Junior bobs by his head, clicking contently. He absently pats them, unpacking his inventory. He packs away his guilt away instead.

Vacation’s over. Rythian immerses himself in work. It’s excruciatingly tedious. He’s trying to make sense of what the Queen left him with; his simple, human brain wasn’t designed to interpret knowledge originating from a higher dimension or beings. The map he’s compiling occupies a permanent spot on his desk, barely filled in with Vaults of utmost importance. His loose, cryptic, rainbow tagged notes span two walls and a ceiling to floor whiteboard.

His thesis drew far too much attention, but that’s as far as he’s willing to go in his reveals. Everybody else can do their own dirty work for a change. He has enough on his plate as it is.

He can’t even transfer all the knowledge to a journal. He’d learned the hard way twice what’d happened when it fell into the wrong hands. The upside is that it’s getting easier to shift through the mental blanks; he doesn’t know if it’s because of the Eridian mutations she inflicted on him, or if it’s because his brain’s slowly adjusting to handling such a giant flow of information.

Where’s Teep when he needs them to play listener? That’s right, they’re off on another scouting mission. The missions are private between the two of them. Only a handful of people know what Teep’s up to. Ravs is one of them; Rythian’s trying not to keep him in the dark again. And yet, here he is, putting distance between them in the hopes that he’ll stop feeling like this.

Ravs leaves him alone for a lonely week, then descends on him to drag him to movie night. It’s a dramatic roster of cheesy romcoms scheduled. Rythian doesn’t care that much about films, but Ravs insists anyway. He has a feeling that it’s not really Ravs’ type of flick either.

He’s right, when Ravs takes a detour. Rythian finds himself pressed up against someone’s door in a random corridor. Ravs leans on the doorway. His body’s penning Rythian in.

Rythian left his coat and scarf behind, and his arm bandages don’t stop the hairs on his arm from stiffening at how close Ravs is standing to him. For the first time since Lalnable sliced open his back, his back prickles.

Ravs looks so serious, a stark change to his usual cheerfulness. He breathes out; the obvious, marked heave of his chest is easy to see when he’s this close. “Mate, just ask me out already.”

So Ravs did catch on.

Rythian’s confused mind nearly fumbles the words that pass into it. He sets the words right, automatically answering, “I have principles against asking colleagues out–“

“Rythian, I’m more than your colleague, I’m your real life fantasy!” Ravs winks. All pretenses of a joke immediately vanish, along with his easygoing grin. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Excuses wouldn’t be right. Rythian swallows, shifting so that Ravs isn’t pressed so intimately against him. He can smell the hair gel that Ravs is using, something that he picked up on Dionysus on one of their city sightseeing trips. It’s a distinctively rich and sweet scent distilled from one of Dionysus’ main exports, a species of syrup producing trees. It’s not half bad. It doesn’t hide what Ravs really smells like underneath. If anything, the hair gel draws Rythian’s attention to it, more so than usual.

“Yeah, I have been,” Rythian admits.

“What did I do to upset you?” Ravs keeps him trapped. “Or did someone say something?”

Rythian knows that he wants answers, but isn’t sure if he can deliver. Not without a few critical omissions and hurting Ravs in the process. Or keep fooling himself that distance is better. 

“Nobody or you’s done anything. It’s me, not you, to borrow something so cliche.”

“Is it the kisses?” Ravs’ expression becomes so troubled that Rythian lets out a soft chuckle.

“No, the kissing can stay.” Rythian’s come to enjoy the casual displays of affection whenever he and Ravs have to leave one another. As far as he knows, Ravs doesn’t grace that many other people with the same, obvious casual affection with every meeting.

Does it bother him that he’s special, that he’s worthy of Ravs’ constant attention? Yes, just a little.

“What is it, then?” Ravs persists.

The resulting silence lasts longer than what Rythian likes. Rythian recalls that they’re close to Ravs’ room. “Can we talk in your room?”

Ravs silently pushes off the wall, giving Rythian back his personal space. Rythian shivers. It has nothing to do with how emptier the air is, without Ravs. He follows Ravs through several turns. Ravs occupies a ‘ground level’ room. He’s on his own, and appears to prefer it that way, despite people offering to share with him. This hasn’t escaped Rythian’s notice.

Nobody sees Ravs escorting Rythian inside. He flips the light on. Ravs didn’t keep much of his life from Pandora on display. Rythian doesn’t either. He doesn’t look around, his gaze dragged to a familiar purple shard sitting in plain sight on Ravs’ desk. It’s resting right by an open matchbox.

He teleports it into his hand before he can stop the thought. The velvet cloth it was sitting on whispers from the displaced air. In his hand, it’s cooler than he imagined, a duller purple than he expected. He gingerly turns it over with a fingernail. Its sharp edges appeared to be carefully sanded down.

“I didn’t mean to keep it for so long.” Ravs is already looking apologetic, running a hand through his own hair. “I was going to give it to you. Sorry.”

Rythian returns the shard. It neatly lands on the bit of cloth Ravs kept it safe in. In spite of how careful he must have been with it, all the fingerprints on its surface speaks volumes about how often it’s handled.

“No, you can keep it.” Rythian thinks of how he’s never given Ravs anything precious in turn, especially when Ravs keeps giving and giving. “If you give it to me, I’ll just give it to Lalnable. And I don’t think he’d be able to do anything with it, what with all the other shards he’s collected.”

Ravs’ expression softens. He wraps the precious shard up, dropping it into the matchbox. That’s shut away into a drawer, out of sight and mind.

Remembering their original reason for coming here, Rythian sighs. He sinks onto Ravs’ bed, dropping his head. “I’m sorry. I’ve been avoiding you because I’m scared that if I’m honest with you, and myself, I’ll fuck things up between us, irreparably.”

“So, you do want to date me?”

Trust Ravs to bend it around so that he’s focusing on the main issue here. 

Who’s he kidding? Ravs makes him  _ happy. _ To keep depriving himself of him is like burning a treasured book, one page at a time. Didn’t he learn his lesson years ago? For shame.

Rythian heaves a deep sigh, forcing all the tension in his shoulders from his chest and into said sigh. He knocks his head against one hand. “Yes, I do. I just don’t want things between us to turn sour when I do fuck up.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Ravs says, full of that sunny optimism that Rythian doesn’t want to end up destroying.

“Clearly you haven’t known me long enough then. Give it time and you’ll see.” Rythian shakes his head like it might change Ravs’ mind.

“I’ve known you long enough,” Ravs patiently says. “And rather intimately too,” He purrs.

Rythian stuffs the strangled noise that almost escapes him back into his chest. “That– that wasn’t a mistake. I don’t think of it as one, anymore.”

“Then neither do I.”

“I’m sorry, for keeping you waiting.”

“It was worth the wait.  _ You _ make it worth the wait.” Smiling, Ravs takes his hand in both of his. “I want this to work.”

“Me too.” Rythian says, the vestiges of his optimism reviving from its hibernation.

\--

He’s cautious, at first. Ravs understands his need to initially keep it under wraps, letting Rythian feel out his comfort zone at his own pace. He’s easier to please than Rythian initially assumed. His physical affection doubles; Ravs is unbearably doting, needing to touch Rythian in some way every time they meet, brushing his hand over his, gracing him with a quick hug or delivering a cheek kiss.

Certain people observe that he’s cheerier than he’d previously been, as with Rythian. Rythian takes his mealtimes with Ravs in the mess hall instead of in his own room. It’s a good excuse to stretch his legs and boost Junior’s contact with people aside from himself. Occasionally, Ravs will reserve the kitchen from Honeydew and cook Rythian a special meal. 

Rythian forgets that Ravs is a phenomenal cook when he’s not busy. It’s all homemade (barring his use of raw ingredients, measured by eye sprinklings of condiments and extra bits). If Rythian hadn’t been watching Ravs make it all, he’d thought that Ravs had magicked it into existence from a secret pocket dimension.

A few weeks after these private dinners start, Ravs actually tries to teach him how to cook. Rythian almost declines the lessons, then realises that it’s Ravs’ way of wanting to spend time with him without exhausting all their other dating options on  _ The Blackrock. _

Well, there’s always sex (which Ravs would  _ definitely _ be up for), but Rythian would rather wait until he’s good and ready. He’d like his second time with Ravs to be better than the first; the first happened when he was in a bad mental place, when the guilt to sate his own loneliness proved too much for him to bear in the aftermath. Ravs still clearly looks upon it without bitterness of any kind; it’s clearly a precious memory of his. Once upon a time, Rythian wanted it gone from Ravs’ head. This time, he wants to do it right.

He tries broaching the subject with his favourite listener: Teep. Teep’s gone for long periods of time, so the best way to reach them is through ECHO. He’d also not rather endure the humiliation of having to ask them in person and their reaction.

> hey teep, i got kind of a personal question to ask but you can answer whenever you’re awake or free

> it’s embarrassing but i’m tired of hitting my head against a wall and i

> shit i hit enter too fast

> go ahead and shoot

> oh, you’re awake?

> ya im between planets right now so i got loads of free time

> oh okay

> how did you...ask ravs?

> youre gonna have to be more specific than that bc you can ask a lot of things and depending on what you ask you may either want to bury yourself or him

> fine, how did you preposition ravs

> step one you mentally prepare yourself

> step two you make sure you have clothes on bc very important so you dont look desperate

> step three you go and find ravs which is easier than you think just look for the signs pointing to the frigate drunkard

> step four ask if hes dtf and if he says yes then you take off your clothes and get dirty with the buff bara man

> step five profit

> all you have to do is ask???

> yes rythian asking is is a part of communication

> did they not teach you this at that fancy university of yours

> excuse me sirs i wanna get fucked so hard tonight that i cant walk tomorrow and skip class so do you know the nearest dive bar

> TEEP, THAT’S NOT WHAT I LEARNED AT UNIVERSITY

> clearly theyre teaching you the wrong life skills

> you must be thinking of the dahl military

> are you calling me a slut

> NO, I DIDNT EVEN KNOW YOU WERE IN THE MILITARY

> surprise bitch where else did you think i honed my sick knife throwing skills but anyway im telling minty, zylus, daltos and arsenal that youre slut shaming us

> please no, i don’t want to get annihilated

> hmm okay since im in a good mood youre safe for now

> why are you in a good mood?

> that lazy panda finally paid off their snack tab to me with interest

> you’re cruel to charge for snacks in the first place

> so says the guy who lives on a moving ship and has the luxury of a proper kitchen while all i got here is what i can fit into my modules and storage units

> okay you may have a point

> plus snacks are an important part of a survivor’s action kit

> never know when you might want to chow down on some jerky while beating some zombified guy’s head in with a crowbar you found

> back to the original subject before i give up all the major secrets to my zombie survival plan

> i dunno, i kinda wanna hear about your plan

> first we get a planet thats got everything we need to sustain civilisation as we know it for the next two centuries and then we get big cannons so that we shoot down all ships that aren’t responding to our hailing so therefore we dont get infected by people trying to sneak in past quarantine and we shoot anybody who tries to hide their bites and

> nice try rythian

> seriously just ask ravs

> what if he thinks im just in this relationship for sex?

> he wont because he knows that youre better than that

> you could always ask daltos for advice if im not around either

> why would i want to ask him?

> newsflash you forgetful asshole hes ravs ex

> oh

> shut up i dont keep track of all these relationships so intimately!

> wanna see my board then bc you might learn sth from it

> no thank you i bet it’s about the size of my wall

> heh you wouldnt be wrong about that

> im gonna go and play some games now before power napping so run along and ask ravs if hes dtf and lemme know how it goes later

> remember that theres nothing wrong with wanting a lil bit of sweet loving you sad lonely deprived beanpole

> okay good luck with your games, thanks for the prep talk and i’m going to ignore that last bit

> i dont need no stinking luck when i have fast hands and an impeccable aim

> knowing braggart

> learned slut shamer

That concludes that. Rythian closes his tab with the conversation, sinking onto his bed. Junior’s taken to hiding in his closet for some reason. They must like how quiet and dark it is in there. Not concerned, Rythian switches off his light and slumps on his side, slightly more content with his life decisions.

\--

Proper dates happen whenever  _ The Blackrock _ resupplies at a world or station. Shore leave is mandatory; people stretch their legs and explore while the captains oversee the frigate’s giant list of docking tasks (in approved shifts, of course). If people don’t go on their assigned leave, Minty headhunts them, sometimes Martyn tagging along to make sure they actually do leave the frigate.

Minty waggles her eyebrows when Rythian submits his papers to her, barely giving them a once over. “Funny, it’s not like you to take up shore leave at the first chance.”

“I have a real reason to go this time, and the next.” Rythian doesn’t stick around long enough to hear any of her suggestive responses, teleporting back into his room.

He doesn’t want to saddle Ravs with being the only one looking up activities to do on their shared shore leave. It detracts from his time preparing for his guest seminars but his next seminar is three months away. He’ll  _ make  _ it work.

Ravs clearly put in the time to find places that Rythian would enjoy. WIth how short shore leave is, they can’t travel anywhere obscure or faraway, sticking to the main districts lest an emergency strikes.

It takes a fair amount of cajoling but Rythian caves to Ravs buying him a top of the line storage unit. He also forgot Ravs is a millionaire, in exchange for his silence about Sjin’s involvement with the Vault. He doesn’t like Ravs keeping the money, but when remembering the hard times relying on Teep for the ration subscription? Rythian keeps his mouth shut. Ravs can spend his money however he wants. He also can’t complain if Ravs chooses to spoil him.

“Thanks, but I don’t need a life subscription to another research magazine,” Rythian patiently says when Ravs catches him eyeing another one.

“You never know,” Ravs laughs, but respects Rythian’s wishes.

There’s a missing element from these dates, one that’s so critical to Ravs. Rythian replays the previous dates in his mind. No, Ravs is very attentive to his needs, seeing as Rythian’s not always on top of them (especially hunger or following map directions). He watches what he says, so– that’s it. 

Ravs doesn’t flirt on his dates. He’s never dropped a single innuendo, or directed anything suggestive at Rythian. Rythian combs his memories, trying to see if he’s mistaken. Nope, nothing, not even a hint.

It’s so against his character that Rythian ransacks his own memory for any moment where he might have told Ravs to knock it off. 

Concerned, Rythian messages Ravs a heads-up that he’s dropping in; the last time he didn’t and forgot to wait for a reply, he teleported to Ravs while Ravs was mid-shower. Ravs thought it was hilarious. Rythian doesn’t think so.

Rythian steps through the floors, ending up outside Ravs’ door. He knocks, as is basic social protocol.

“Come in, I’ve been expecting you,” Ravs invites.

Smiling, Rythian bypasses the door. “Hello.”

Ravs is in bed, reading. Dick and Arden are dozing on the carpet underneath his bed. Their legs twitch as they dream. Ravs doesn’t even jump, greeting him with a little wave. Rythian carefully settles on the edge of Ravs’ bed, pulling the ends of his scarf up, far beyond kraggon mouth range. 

“You don’t have to always knock,” Ravs says, sitting up to grace him with a kiss. He’s borrowing a paperback (originally borrowed from Teep, who borrowed it from Zylus, who– enough).

“Can’t blame me for being polite,” Rythian says. 

There was also the time Daltos knocked and Ravs answered the door, supposedly naked. The incident led to the rule of ‘no answering the door nude’ being enforced. Daltos refuses to confirm if asked about it.

“What’s up?”

“Why did you stop flirting with me on our dates?”

“Ah, that.” Ravs sighs. “People used to think I wasn’t interested in them when I kept flirting with other people. They also ended things early because they didn’t think they were good enough for me, so they never got to  _ really _ know me. Or thought of me as a complete joke behind my back.” He shrugs. “It’s easier to put up a front and play into expectations than it is to properly be myself around people.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you’re not, you know.” Rythian jazz hands as he trails off. “Inadequate, or a laughing stock. To me, that is. You’re more than that.”

“Don’t be! It’s all bygones. I used to hate flirting at first, but it comes naturally now. Plus, it’s easier to get away with a lot more if people already like you.” 

Rythian raises an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Stuff like this.” Ravs snakes his arms around Rythian’s middle, pulling him into a cosy, sideways hug. Rythian melts into it. “I can hug Teep and it’ll look natural. Draws less attention when they do actually have a knife on them.”

“That’d explain why you called in sick a couple of weeks ago.”

“Now, to be fair, I surprised them.”

“That doesn’t happen often.”

“It happens more often than you think. They did apologise and escort me to the medical bay.” Ravs pats his abdomen with a free hand, grinning. There’s another scar layered atop an old one, on one hip, bright pink and freshly healed. “That’s why I always wear ‘protection’, see?”

Rythian snorts. “How noble of you.” He pats Ravs’ remaining hand. “I do actually like the flirting, but you don’t have to push yourself to act that way towards me. And you can flirt with other people, I know you’re not going to run off with anybody else.”

“Not unless I have your permission first.” Ravs jostles him. “Hey, you and me, we’re doing really good.”

“I hope so. I like being with you.”

“That’s all I could ask for.”

“You big sap.”

“Let’s hang out with Teep. It’s been ages since we last did anything together.”

“Sure.”

“You staying in my room tonight? We can watch another season of that series you like.”

“It’s okay to admit that you’re not as invested in my shows, and I completely understand if you’re judging me for catching up on ten years of missed stuff, or for my poor taste in media.”

“It’d be incredibly rude of me to insult your tastes, but thank you for your attentiveness, so now I can tell you that I’ve actually seen this with Minty. Five times. Both drunk and sober. Buuuuut, I’m happy to watch this with you, if you don’t mind me falling asleep on you again.”

“We can watch something else together? Something new?”

“I love you, and your diplomacy.”

\--

– / / NOW PLAYING ECHO LOG. / / –

Ravs: I’ve never been to a carnival before as an adult.

Rythian: Then I’m glad we’re going to this one. Who’d want to miss out on all this junk food, novel attractions, local sights, overpriced showbags and animal poop?”

Ravs: Not me!

Teep: …

Rythian: What? You’ve never been to one either?

Teep: …

Rythian: That’s really sad.

Teep: …

Rythian: Me? I’ve snuck out to a couple. Otherwise, attended mostly balls, and they’re boring. Food’s good though. 

Ravs: Take me to a ball sometime!

Rythian: But that’d mean having to go home and actually wear a proper suit for a full eight hours!

Ravs: Now that, I’d be willing to do, just to see you in a suit.

Rythian: You missed your chance when Nanosounds stuffed me into one before my first seminar. I got away, of course.

Teep: …

Rythian: You? Go? In a suit? Sorry, sorry, it’s just...you know, the obvious.

Teep: …

Rythian: Oh no, no, I think you’d look fantastic in a suit! I’m not just saying that because you’ll break my kneecaps if I say otherwise.

Ravs: I agree, you’d look absolutely dashing in a suit. 

Teep: …

Rythian: You’re not going to my family’s next one. It’s all full of people trying to pick apart my degree, and after the bombshell I dropped on Hecate, I’d rather catch rakk flu than go.

Ravs: But what if we asked Zoeya to tag along? She’d keep everybody distracted and we can have a good time!

Rythian: You’re asking the person who named her best rooster after you without realising the dick joke potential, and is a good sport about it after she did catch on, is happy to spend a day rooting around in dirt and poop piles to get samples, and who once spent two weeks binging cartoons in her pajamas simply because she didn’t want to work on her research. Well, the last part I sympathize with very strongly, but you get my point.

Teep: …

Rythian: Oh yeah, and who made pancakes but forgot to put the flour in and wondered why they came out weird.

Teep: …

Ravs: Hey, everybody’s gotta start somewhere with pancakes! And that rooster is amazing.

Rythian: No comments about the dirt and poop rummaging?

Ravs: Even I can’t be positive about that. She’s the only one who could be!

Rythian: Teep? What about you?

Teep: …

Rythian: That’s a ‘no’ from them.

Ravs: Hold up! Back up, back up.

Rythian: What’s wrong?

Ravs: I just saw something that I gotta have.

Rythian: It’s a dog plushie wearing a kilt.

Teep: …

Ravs: A grown man can have a plushie!

Teep: …

Ravs: I’m going to ignore what you just signed since it’s rude and belittling of people who still sleep with stuffed toys.

Rythian: It costs five dollars per attempt, and you only got  _ one _ opportunity to win it.

Ravs: I’m not afraid to get on my knees and beg. Listen, I don’t just want that plushie. I  _ need _ that plushie.

Rythian: Get up quick, people are thinking you’re about to propose to me! Don’t look at me, I only used Jakobs shotguns, so probably not the best person to ask.

Ravs: Teeeeeeeeeeep?

Teep: …

Ravs: Finish your slushie before trying.

Teep: …

Rythian: I can hold your drink–

Teep: …

Ravs: Teep reckons that they can do it without putting their drink down.

Rythian: Can I please get this on video?

Teep: …

Ravs: …

Rythian: …

Teep: …

Rythian: You did it. YOU DID IT. YOU REALLY DID IT! AND YOU GOT A FREE EXTRA PLUSHIE! AND WITH BRAIN FREEZE!

Ravs: This plushie is going to be a family heirloom. It’ll fit in right amongst my brewer’s stock, fancy pigeons and castle. Here, Rythian, you can have the second one. 

Rythian: Thanks– I, uh, didn’t realise you wanted a family.

Ravs: It’s on the agenda, but not my current one.  _ You’re _ my agenda, Rythian.

Rythian: Oh, you.

Teep: …

Ravs: Thanks, Teep. Hm...you want us to win you something? Anything to show our gratitude!

Rythian: Your room  _ is _ a little plain.

Teep: …

Rythian: I’m not insulting your taste in minimalist decor!

Teep: …

Rythian: What I’m trying to say is, your place could do with some sprucing up, to help you relax when you’re not on any jobs.

Ravs: He’s got a point, you know. You don’t even have a mini-fridge!

Rythian: Ravs, not everyone needs a mini-fridge to keep stuff in.

Ravs: I could literally buy everyone one!

Rythian: Or, you could buy a shiny new coffee machine for  _ The Blackrock,  _ which could make a lot of people very happy. Especially Arsenal. 

Ravs: I could put it on the bridge.

Rythian: I think Daltos would kill you if you put it there. Or kiss you.

Ravs: I love making people happy! Especially you, Rythian.

Teep: …

Rythian: Alright, I’ll stop having eyesex with Ravs and get on with the game.

Ravs: You pick something then! We’ll do our best.

Teep: …

Rythian: Why would you pick the crane one?

Teep: …

Ravs: You evil, poker faced bastard. No, you’re never winning anything from that crane.

Rythian: There’s another shooting one. I see something Teep might like.

Teep: …

Ravs: Wish us luck, will you?

Rythian: Nice shot.

Ravs: I had a little ‘help’.

Rythian: Why are you winking at me? I didn’t do anything to the bullet!

Ravs: Of course you didn’t. It’d be impossible for  _ most _ people to teleport something that tiny and fast!

Teep: …

Rythian: Here you go!

Ravs: And one from me.

Teep: …

Rythian: They’re stuffed dinosaur plushies, and they’d better be on your bed by the next time we visit.

Teep: …

Rythian: Or else what? Uh…Ravs, help me!

Ravs: I fill your room with mini-fridges. They’ll all have sample jars in them. That’s  _ unlabeled _ sample jars.

Teep: …

Ravs: Gotcha there, didn’t I?

Teep: …

– / / NOW ENDING ECHO LOG. / / –

\--

Teep didn’t resist the invitation to meet Ravs’ family, compared to Rythian. Rythian sits this one out; he has another guest seminar to prepare, and regrets that he can’t accompany the two with profuse apologies.

Ravs reassures him that he won’t be missing much; Teep shrugs and makes for their ship, forcing Ravs to cut his goodbye with Rythian short and jog to keep up with their impatient stride.

It’s not Ravs’ first time in Teep’s ship; Teep dropped off people if they’re passing by places, albeit rarely. In those few and far between times, he’s never seen Teep relinquish navigation and full control to the autopilot, even if the trip takes a few days.

Thankfully,  _ The Blackrock _ is in atmosphere, nabbing one of the few parking spaces available to a military class ship (even if it’s no longer registered as such). 

Teep’s ship departs the hanger on the all clear from the ground crew and Arsenal, zipping straight down through the clouds. The pace is so sedate; Ravs doesn’t experience the gravity shift as suddenly, compared to Zylus’ launch.

He lets Teep concentrate on flying in silence, having provided his clan’s coordinates. It’s supposed to be a lovely sunny day, even if the forecasts predict a drizzle or two later on, and cold enough to have him pull his leather jacket on. 

Ravs is anxious. At the last family meeting involving Rythian’s clan, Teep proved patient and tolerant of any prying. Whether they’ll be as much towards Ravs’ more inquisitive folks is up in the air. Teep’s tendency for moodiness varied with a combination of many factors: amount of successful power naps, stress levels, the last time they ate and drank, and proximity to certain people, and proximity to exits.

In theory, Teep should be in a relatively okay mood. They spent a week on board  _ The Blackrock, _ catching up on news and everything else. They locked their room and temporarily blocked him after he insisted on personally delivering their meals to them. Rythian couldn’t help laughing at his fretting at being rejected. When Ravs tried again on the third day, Teep materialized at their door to let him in, with no apology whatsoever. Other people would have been offended.

Ravs isn’t. Teep values their privacy, to the point of borrowing Rythian’s shower whenever they needed to freshen up, ignoring the communal ones closer to their room. They used to borrow Ravs’, back at the Crooked Caber. He misses the random visits, making something for them to take back down to the Caustic Caverns while waiting for them to finish. It’s the other way around these days, him going to Teep.

Maybe Teep was waiting for him. 

Ravs suppresses a chuckle at the thought. It’s not revelatory. Teep spent ten years waiting to reunite with Saberial, and for Panda to find and kill them.

Back on Pandora, Ravs lay on his bed in the darkened room, acutely aware of every breath he and Teep took. He pulled his hand back, mindful of touching them without layers blocking the skin on skin contact. It seemed far too intimate, even if a few minutes ago, Teep had given him every permission under the sun, space station and moon to do so.

Teep shifted at the rustling motion, lifting their head. They kept their back turned to him, sprawled on their side. Ravs glimpsed the faint reflection of their good eye; he deliberately let them have the side with the table light so they could control the amount of darkness.

His heart clenched, beneath his ribs. Still, he held his tongue. 

Without their goggles, Teep couldn’t message him, or sign without turning up the light. A contemplative finger traced along the back of his hand, the touch so light and thoughtful. Ravs jumped, interrupting the connection. The bed creaked. 

Teep paused; they’ve turned to fully face him, their bad eye closed so he can’t see the glowing, hypnotising cloud of purple always swirling inside it.

Ravs was proud of himself for noticing that after the Vault incident, Teep switched the side they peered down the scope with. None of their shots missed. Not that they’d set out to impress him in the first place, they’d said.

He set his palm up, using the tips of his fingers to lead Teep’s own to his hand, a willing canvas for their thoughts. If Teep was hard to read with their mask on, they’re unreadable without it, a blank slate of emotion. It’s a sharp contrast to Rythian, who’s always been a pent-up, battered, barely held together glass jar (to Ravs; he always strived to break through to him, and failed, at least twice).

Teep’s lone finger dipped, curved, looped and lined on his palm. It’s hardly ticklish. Ravs admired the precision and concentration they’re devoting to the task. Once they withdrew their hand, he assembled the question in his mind.

“Why so shy now?” He said out loud. A flicker of a smile passed over Teep’s face. Or, it could be the dark playing tricks on his optimistic mind. “I don’t want to cross any boundaries.”

Teep’s hand moved again. “You think you can put distance between us so easily, after I’ve accepted your offer?”

“I’m not regretting anything,” Ravs said. He added, softly, “I hope that you don’t. I made that offer in full sincerity, no strings attached–”

“I don’t, so calm down,” came the flippant response. “You’re not overstepping if you want to cuddle.”

“You sure?”

“Sure. I’d even appreciate it, I’m actually cold.” Teep turned away from him, exposing their back.

It’s a flimsy excuse, if it’s even one. Ravs pulled the sheets up higher before stretching out a hand. It hovered over Teep’s side. He lowered it, placing it on Teep’s arm. He waited for them to move away, clueing him to their discomfort. When they didn’t, Ravs shifted himself closer, curling up against them as per their wishes.

“Is this alright?”

“Perfect,” Teep wrote along his wrist. “Let me rest for a little longer here.”

“Of course,” Ravs acknowledged, trying not to think that this might be the last time he sees Teep.

It wasn’t. Teep survived both Panda and the battle of Sanctuary Hole. They still had the metal plate buried in their once broken arm, on Lalnable’s orders. They could have removed it themself if they wanted to. Ravs knows that Teep won’t, not without good reason.

“Is your arm gonna hurt if it gets too cold?” Ravs speaks from his chair. All he gets in reaction is a slight turn of their chair.

> should be fine i took painkillers already

“Shouldn’t you have seen Lalnable?”

> chill its not a big deal

> they dont usually hurt but its a precaution since i dont want to be distracted when i meet your family

“I’m glad you want to fully immerse yourself in meeting my family, especially my ma.”

> be good to finally set the record straight as to whos winning

“You’ll fit right in,” Ravs says, grinning. Teep’s competitive nature is bound to earn them a few admirers and enemies.

> anything i should be worried about esp if rythian forgot to mention it

“If you don’t want to drink, that’s perfectly fine. I told them you don’t like alcohol, which was shocking to them, but they won’t pressure you. If anybody does, you tell me and I’ll deal with them.”

> and should i be keeping an eye on you and your yeasty piss water intake

“Moonshine is not piss water, and you definitely know that I kicked my alcoholism years ago!”

> are you sure

“I’ve been  _ very _ careful,” Ravs stresses. “You can check with Rythian, if you like.”

> i did

“Oh?” Ravs knew that Rythian was keeping an eye on him, just as much as he was keeping an eye on him. “How am I doing?”

> super fine apparently

“Hey, don’t be so disappointed that you can’t schedule an intervention for me with Rythian.”

> no thanks id rather go skydiving naked

Ravs spit-laughs at that, pulling on a homemade sweater, layering his leather jacket on top of it. Teep typed all that without looking away from the view outside the cockpit. 

> btw nice sweater

“Thanks,” Ravs says. He doesn’t have time to ask if Teep wants one.

The ship descends through the misty mountains, towards a solidly built platform set beside a series of barns. People work amongst the fields, tending to the local flocks and machinery scattered on the far ranging estate. Construction flanks one wall of the castle, repairs and expansions underway. After that, it’ll be the main and secondary breweries.

His ma’s really done well with the money he sent over from Pandora.

> huh i expected a shack in the middle of nowhere not a fully decked out castle and fields and feudal shit

“Excuse me, my family’s done rather well despite my absence,” Ravs says with as much pride as he can when Teep’s dropping the ship faster than he likes. “You should meet Reginald.”

> i already know about wee sexy reggie and i cant wait to be shat on

“Dammit, Rythian, stop spoiling my fun!”

Teep parks the ship on the platform, powering it down. A few relatives holler to Ravs as Ravs leads Teep up to the castle. Teep sticks their hands into their jacket pockets, watching the scenery. It’s a shockingly clear day, the sun bypassing the mist usually concealing his home from watchers.

Ravs’ ma reclines in a rocket chair at the head of the long table. She’s wrapped in a hand-knitted shawl in the dining room, eating porridge from a wooden bowl. Ravs hugs her, kissing her cheek. “Surprise! Miss me?”

“Aye, you’re a naughty boy, forgetting to call ahead again,” She scolds, but with a pleased grin. She glances at Teep. “You brought another friend?”

“This is Teep,” Ravs says, pulling Teep forward by the hand. Teep removes their hands from their pockets. They bow instead of shaking her hand.

Ma nods, clearly enjoying the respect they’re showing. ““So you’re the other famous troublemaker Ravs tows around with him.”

“Whatever he’s told you, I didn’t set the bar on fire, that was all Nilesy,” Teep signs. 

Ma guffaws, slapping her hand onto the table. “I like this one, they have a sense of humour compared to Rythian.”

“Rythian can be funny! He’s just shy in front of you, that’s all,” Ravs defends. “I should also bring Nilesy down sometime, he’d love to meet you!”

“Bring all the friends you want, space is aplenty, and growing.” Ma pulls her descending shawl back onto her lap. “How many sweaters is that I’m knitting? Mind, I’m still working on yours, you’ve clearly sprouted more muscle since I last saw you.” She squints at Teep. “I’ll just minus the wool off yours to make up for it.”

“I’m touched I qualify for a sweater,” Teep signs, looking at Ravs like he’s responsible for talking her into making them one. Ravs pretends not to notice.

“I knitted one for every Mercenary Day to send to my absent lad, but shipping from this green land stacks, and Ravs told me to save my money.”

“I picked them all up in the end! I’m even wearing one right now.” Ravs unzips his leather jacket, showing off the one he’s wearing.

“Hm, I was right. You have gone up three sizes.” Ma taps his chest. “Take it off if you can’t breathe in it, I’m not having you pass out into my porridge.” She moves her bowl aside.

“I’m fine!” Ravs turns to Teep. “She’s under the impression that sweaters need to be baggy and loose for maximum comfiness.”

“You want a sweater you can crawl into at the end of the day, not one that knocks you out if you try to bend over in it,” Ma grumbles.

“I’ll wear your sweaters, even if I’m swimming in them,” Ravs says. “What if you get sick of sweaters?”

“It’s scarves next,” Ma says, lighting up a wooden pipe. “I need to do something with the mountain of wool in the sheds since nobody’s into hand shorn mountain wool anymore, they all want synthetic, lab spun shite.”

“I’m sure I can put out a word or two,” Ravs muses out loud. He pulls the bench out for Teep. One cousin zooms over. Ravs introduces Teep. The cousin leaves with Ravs and Teep’s requests for lunch. “Make one for Rythian?”

“On it.” Ma puffs on her pipe, glancing off into the distance. “Lad, you can pitch all the help all you want, but you focus on your own journey.”

“I want to help,” Ravs insists. “I’ve been gone for too long–“

“That’s exactly why you don’t need to help.” Ma blows a smoke cloud away from the two, puffing again. “I still got a few years left in me before they force me into retirement, and you get all my problems.”

“Let me help you so there’s no problems once you’re retired.” Ravs gives her a pleading look.

Ma chuckles. “There’s no problem that I haven’t dealt with before, and with the clan’s collective help.” She reaches for his hand to pat the back of it. “Trust in your auld ma a wee bit longer.”

Ravs is silent for a few minutes, his fingers curling into a fist beneath her tiny hand. “I didn’t come back home just to abandon you again.”

“Sirens, lad, you’re not abandoning anyone!” Ma laughs, shaking her head. Her pipe leaks ash, scattering onto the floor. “Everyone knows how hard you worked on Pandora, even if you didn’t need to. A little break and some time to yourself is something you need, while the universe is still safe.”

“That’s too selfish of me–“ Ravs stops at the gloved hand tapping on his. 

Teep gestures to her. “She’s right. You got a really bad habit of pushing yourself all the time for people. The universe isn’t going to fall apart if you spend a week relaxing.”

“Listen to your friend.” Ma sighs. “Every letter, you’d always apologise that this is all you could send! I wondered how you were eating, until you let slip that Teep paid for your rations, and how embarrassed you were to stoop that low by guilting your friend.”

“It wasn’t guilt, it was kindness,” Teep corrects when Ravs opens his mouth.

“So there! Kindness, not guilt. Let it sink in, my son. People care about you just as much as you care for others, not any less.”

“I’ll try to remember that.” Ravs attempts a sheepish smile. “Thank you.”

“Don’t go crying in front of me, you big baby,” Teep signs.

“Naw, I won’t.” Ravs wipes at his eyes with a napkin. “I’m happy to hear that you said all that.”

“You’re only human,” Ma reminds. “Never forget that, and never let it bring you down.” She hitches one sleeve of her sweater up, showing off a tattoo imprinted on her bicep. It’s the quote, inked simply in cursive, without any embellishments.

Ravs has a feeling Teep shoots him an ironic look. Their lunches arrive. Ravs excuses himself to take Teep to his old room so they can eat in private. He doubles back to sit with his Ma a little bit longer.

They talk, moving away from such seriousness onto cheerier topics. Wee sexy Reggie and company are moulting, creating a right mess in the aviaries. Second and third great-uncle and auntie are taste testing another brew; he should stop by their house later to pick up some new starters. If Ma can’t find enough buyers for the month’s wool, it’s all going offworld.

Teep brings back their empty plate. Ravs is sorry to cut his talk with his Ma short, but she doesn’t mind, shooing him from the castle with a hug and kiss. 

He doesn’t like how her grip isn’t what it used to be, or how bony her wrists are becoming. He could curl his middle finger and thumb around one and there’d still be excess space left. She ate only plain porridge, abandoning it to spend the time talking to him and Teep. She used to eat two plates of lunch, back when he was a kid; he inherited her appetite.

Ravs takes one last look at her before he leaves the hall. His cousin stops by her chair, pushing her bowl back over. Putting away her pipe, she shakes her head. The cousin murmurs to her. She relents to their firm but gentle nagging, picking up her spoon again.

She never used to be that small in her chair either, or dwarfed by her favourite shawl. She filled his entire world since he was a baby, larger than life itself. 

Ravs takes Teep on a brief tour. There’s a lot of places that Ravs can’t really show, since it’s all being renovated or too busy to get into. Teep didn’t mind Reginald perching on their head, fluffing down atop their hood.

“You could knit her a sweater. That way, she wouldn’t have to lug around a shawl,” Teep suggests once they’re back on Greenman.

“I can’t knit for shit,” Ravs admits. “My needles and wool always tangled back in crafts.”

“Aren’t mothers supposed to love whatever you make for them anyway?”

“I want mine to actually be good, thanks.”

“Practice makes perfect. Ask Parvis for knitting patterns.”

“Really? Thanks.” 

Ravs continues with the brief tour of his childhood home. Teep doesn’t say much as he introduces them to all his relatives. After that, Ravs asks if Teep can fly into the nearby city for some shopping.

He wants to give Teep a present for missing all their birthdays. Thanks to Sips’ big payment, Ravs could theoretically treat anyone. He’s narrowed down Teep’s interests to weapons, accessories and ammo. Ravs defaults to letting Teep do the picking themself and he’ll pay for it. They hadn’t fought him for wanting to be generous, not as much as he’d initially thought. 

Ravs directs Teep to the location of a popular store, one where he used to buy all his trading cards from. It has three floors devoted purely for the kind of things Panda, Zoeya and Saberial like. 

Teep spends two hours browsing the whole place from top to bottom. Ravs observes. Teep picks one shirt and walks to the check out.

“Why only one shirt?” Ravs stops them.

“It’ll do.” Teep folds it neatly.

“If you want me to, I could buy more for you.”

“One will do. I’m not in urgent need of new shirts.” Teep accepts the cash Ravs hands them, and Ravs is forced to leave it at that. Funny, Rythian is almost exactly the same.

Ravs gets a gift from his mother when he returns to the castle. She’s prepared Reginald and a couple of other pigeons for travel, to take with him so that he’ll never forget home. 

“Some company for you, my wee laddie.”

Ravs kisses her cheek and promises to visit more. Teep excuses themself from the moment so Ravs can say his goodbyes.

\--

Rythian’s not stumped for long about Ravs’ message to him. The message reads ‘I want some peace and quail’, which doesn’t seem that weird. Rythian paces his room from left to right. He keeps popping off teleports so he doesn’t have to step around his bed where Junior is, coiled like an oversized, freakishly white scarf.

Junior drops a red ball at his feet, sensing his agitation. Pausing, Rythian picks it up and lobs it at the floor. Junior darts off the bed after it, gracefully turning a tight circle to fetch it. Rythian massages his temples, lightly pinching the skin there.

“Where the Sirens do I get some quail?” He mumbles. He’s too lost in thought to notice Junior coiling around him until it’s too late, their head is in his lap and they’re purring, wanting attention. “I swear you’ve gotten needier lately, you’ve picked up some bad behaviours from those kraggons,” Rythian grumbles. Junior gently butts their head into his abdomen, nuzzling his hand affectionately.

He consults Arsenal. Just well, because Arsenal’s in charge of ordering over ten lists of supplies, each with their own quirks and individual personalities. Nobody knows how Arsenal manages to do it; Sherlock tried once and went missing after a day. He was eventually found in the kitchen, crying underneath a bench with a half eaten tub of ice cream, rocking back and forth.

Xephos was the second victim. They were discovered slumped in a corner of Strippin and Benji’s office, muttering random numbers, both ECHO eyes offline until Honeydew rebooted them.

Vox doesn’t butt in; they cited their own reasons for leaving Arsenal be. Nobody wanted to be the third victim, so Arsenal’s left unhassled to play supply guy. Minty is tight-lipped about his success, and so is Daltos. Arsenal claimed innocence on all occasions. 

After carefully consulting Arsenal’s packed schedule, Rythian catches Arsenal on his lunch break. He made sure that the kraggons were away; they had a habit of getting underfoot and Rythian doesn’t want to teleport and end up standing on someone’s lunch (again).

Arsenal’s alone, which makes Rythian’s life easier. He takes a plate of soup from Nilesy, picking a seat next to him. “Hey Arsenal.”

“Hey Rythian, nice to see you out and about,” Arsenal greets. He dips a corner of his toast into the soup, leaving it to soak. “What’s up? You want some more pens again?”

“For the record, I haven’t lost all my pens. Yet.” Rythian tastes a mouthful of the soup. He forgot to check the menu. It tastes like Ravs’ patented home stew.

“I could check my kraggons. Little buggers have a knack for getting into places they shouldn’t, especially people’s rooms if doors are accidentally left open.” Arsenal chuckles fondly. “So, you don’t want pens. Books? I just got the monthly selection in, I can forward that to you in a tic.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.” Rythian puts down his spoon. “Actually, I have a bit of a silly request.”

“I hope you’ve checked my banned items list, because I’m not all about dealing with that shit. I just updated it last week!”

“No, no, I want some…” Rythian leans in, whispering to Arsenal. “Quails.”

“Quails?” Arsenal’s eyebrows shoot up. “You want  _ quails?” _

Rythian leans back, his expression flat. “There’s no point in me whispering if you’re just going to repeat what I say in a loud voice.”

“You want adult quails, baby quails, what kind of quail? How many?” Arsenal snaps his fingers. “Talk to me!”

“Uh...just regular quails? Maybe not a lot. Three?” Rythian guesses.

“Rythian, there are fifty-nine species of spacefaring approved quail that you can pick from.” Arsenal breaks up his disintegrating bread with his spoon, shoveling it into his mouth. He swallows, nodding. “I’ll send you a list, and you get back to me in a week before I put in my next order, and I’ll get you your quails before the month’s done.”

“Do I have to pay you anything?”

“Just between you and me, this one’s on the house.” Arsenal pats Rythian’s shoulder, winking. “Lucky for you, I love quails, especially if they’re roasted. Dibs on the first one!”

Shit, Arsenal thinks he’s gonna cook them. Rythian forgot to ask Ravs what he wanted them for. He just nods, finishing the rest of his soup as quickly as he can. He bids Arsenal goodbye, retreating to his room.

Two weeks later, Rythian knocks on Ravs’ door. The box in his hand emits a variety of soft chirps and scratching noises.

“I brought you some quail,” Rythian says, when Ravs answers the door.

“What’re you talking about?” Ravs stares at him.

“Well, you asked me for some!” Exasperated, Rythian holds the box at arm’s length.

“What? No, I just wanted some peace and quiet!”

Rythian shows Ravs his message. Ravs scratches his head. He bursts out laughing once he’s done. “I’m so sorry, I meant ‘quiet’, not quails!”

“Oh.” Rythian blushes. “What do I do with all these quails then?”

“Give them here, I’ll look after them. Be a shame to send the poor things back after such a long trip. Besides, you’re hardly little things, aren’t you?” Ravs takes the cardboard box off Rythian, plonking it on the floor. He lifts the flap to peek in, not noticing that it’s actually a lid.

A few speckled birds zoom out from under the flap, disappearing under Ravs’ bed. Ravs and Rythian both peer under it. The quails peck and scratch at the floor, inspecting it and their new home.

“You sure they’ll be fine under there?”

“My room’s habitable, and I’ll feed and water them every day,” Ravs says, with a straight face. Rythian resists the urge to facepalm.

The pigeons coo in their miniature holdings from the ceiling, wary about the new visitors to their domain. 

The next time Rythian sees Ravs, Ravs is yawning. He almost faceplants into his meal; Rythian saves him by switching out the plate for a pillow. Ravs blinks, lifting his head.

“Aren’t you getting enough sleep?” Rythian returns the pillow, handing Ravs his plate.

“You’ve never missed silence until you’ve heard the sweet sounds of quails making love under your bed when you’re trying to catch some shuteye.” Ravs rubs his eyes. “Pigeons aren’t happy either, having to compete for my affection.”

“Maybe you should move those quails.”

“To where? Nilesy’s cat cafe? They’ll all be murdered in a heartbeat!”

“Don’t tell me you’re attached to them now.”

“I named the fattest ‘Buttons’, so.”

“Why ‘Buttons?’”

“Because that’s much nicer sounding than ‘argh, you wee bastard’, isn’t it?”

“Talk to Arsenal?”

“I don’t think he’d lend me a room just for quails.”

“He likes eating quails. He keeps dropping hints about a little barbeque.”

“He can’t have mine!”

“Don’t quails lay eggs as well? Eggs can hatch.”

“Didn’t you get me all lasses?”

“No, I got you a mix.”

“Oh. No wonder why, there’s more of them now.”

“Let’s go ask Arsenal, but after you’ve eaten and napped in my room.”

“What if I don’t want to nap and want to do ‘something else’ instead?”

“I firmly insist you nap, or you’ll fall asleep on me halfway and end up crushing me.”

“Hm, fair enough, I’m too tired to argue. Lead the way.”

\--

Rythian lifts up the bedsheets, peering under his bed. He lowers his sheets, checking beneath his desk. Nope, not there either. The bathroom’s empty. He’s searched every conceivable location in his room. In his hand, he holds the beloved rubber ball.

“Junior?” Rythian calls. A faint scuffling from the direction of his closet answers him. He tugs on the door. It jams, almost wrenching his hand off. “Junior!” Dropping the ball, Rythian gets both of his hands on the closet door and begins a tug of war. “Come out of there!”

The door rattles as the clicking grows louder, insistent. Junior’s been spending an awful lot of time in there lately, rather than following him around. He’d have called it ‘petulant sulking’ if Junior had been human.

Junior’s not, so Rythian’s forced to think of other reasons why Junior’s avoiding him. He hasn’t seen Junior in three whole days, according to the calendar in his HUD.

The latch loosening sends him flying against the wall as a pale white, serpentine shape flees the closet. It skitters under his bed. Slumping against the door, Rythian stares as his bedsheets falls back into place. Whatever’s underneath his bed can’t be Junior; bean shaped and baby sized, Junior snugly fits into his arms, no matter what. That  _ thing _ is about two metres in length, possessing a mask and wicked claws. He can feel its eyes on him, as black as the space outside of the frigate’s hull.

He reaches into the closet, trying to rescue Junior, if Junior’s still in there. He touches a scrap of cloth, pulling it out. It’s Junior’s bit of scarf, hanging limp and frayed from his hand. It’s tattered and in need of a good wash but still recognisable. 

The thing underneath his bed clicks as soon as it sees it. The mattress shifts as it curls up, staring right at his hand. Rythian stares down the creature. He can see its eyes reflecting the room back at him, and himself in the pitch blackness of both. A mouth filled with teeth pants at him. It reminds him of Arsenal’s kraggons.

Afraid, and needing help, Rythian shifts towards the door, always facing his bed. The creature’s body rotates to match. He drops the scarf. It flutters to the floor; as quick as a flash, the creature snatches it up and flees back underneath the bed, hugging the scarf to its underside.

Somehow, it’s familiar, the gesture, similar to the way Junior watches the washing machine holding their scarf. Rythian drops into a crouch. He moves closer to the bed, slowly, even as his leg muscles protest.

“Junior?” He softly says. The clicking returns, doubly fast. “It is you.” He reaches underneath the bed, his hand finding synthetic flesh. Junior nudges his hand away, curling up into a tight coil. “It’s okay. I know it’s you now.” 

A little ashamed it’d taken him this long to recognise them, Rythian sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to put his weight where Junior is. He can see a noticeable bulge on the mattress, underneath his sheets.

The babbling fades. Junior’s head pokes out, between his feet. An enormous set of jaws are clamped down around the scarf. The mask sits up on Junior’s forehead, their jaws housed beneath it.

Junior’s scarf is now too small for them. Is that what Junior’s fretting about?

Rythian sighs. “I’ll get you another one. We all outgrow things.” Junior’s jaws slacken. Rythian retrieves the scarf, adopting a practical tone. “I need to know what size, so I need you to come out of there.”

Reluctantly, Junior snakes out from underneath his bed. Rythian keeps a poker face as he takes in how large Junior’s become; a metre is an underestimate. Junior easily matches him and Teep in height when stretched.

Puttis generally didn’t morph or mutate, but Junior’s a special exception. Why now? Rythian shakes his head, also pinching the bridge of his nose. “Were you hiding in my closet because you were scared I’d freak out at you growing?” Junior comically slumps against the floor. Rythian pats them, smiling. “I’ll always know it’s you. I wish you’d told me beforehand, though.”


	2. part two.

At every major port, Nilesy brings home a cat. He haggles the smallest cargo bay from Arsenal, and fills it with cats. The frigate has bays to spare and Arsenal is easy to get along with, being a fellow pet owner. Nilesy’s diamond kitten is a real anklebiter; they attack exposed ankles with the ferocity of a personally wronged cat. He loves them in spite of the scratches, clawing and destruction of the flesh on his hands and ankles. They tolerate socks, so long as the socks can be tugged at with an enterprising set of claws.

At five cats, Lomadia shakes her head. At ten, Lomadia purses her lips. At fifteen cats, she sighs and sets up a vet station in the adjoining office. At twenty cats, Lomadia collars all of Nilesy’s cats. At twenty-five, she makes it a personal mission to neuter all of them. 

At thirty, she tags Zoeya in and obtains portraits, stuffing an album full of pictures for any visitor’s convenience (and Nilesy’s amusement; he certainly didn’t need pictures to know each and every single one of his cat’s names).

At thirty-five, Lomadia recruits her own crew of personal assistants to keep the cats entertained (not that she has any shortage of volunteers; cats seem to be a universal attractor for people). At forty, she asks Minty to recruit a fellow vet. At fifty, Nilesy achieves his lifelong dream of owning fifty cats. 

Everyone heaves a relieved sigh. Bets are collected and fights are broken up.

Nilesy closes his cargo bay to anyone who’s not part of the ‘Cool Cats’, puts almost everyone on said crew on non-duty and retreats inside it. Ravs brings him his meals. He’s tight-lipped to prying, winking and putting a finger to his lips about what Nilesy’s up to. Panda’s questions are rebuffed with ‘just wait and see’, which causes Panda to groan but otherwise, wait impatiently. Lomadia ignores people who ask her about it. Teep? Teep signs that ‘they’ve taken a vow of silence’ regarding it. Nobody can tell if they’re joking.

Zylus makes a long-scheduled stop at a Starkea, pulling the frigate into one of the docking stations. People chip in to afford the parking fee, disembarking to explore and buy furnishings and other assorted goods. Nobody notices Nilesy sneaking in and out with his purchases (barely denting his secret stash of Sips’ catsitting funds).

Three standard weeks later, a date appears in the ‘Cool Cats’ chat. Ravs pins up a poster in the local cafeteria. Honeydew turns up at the ‘crack of dawn’, claiming the first spot in the queue by the still closed door. Alsmiffy is the second. Ross avoided the place, claiming ‘allergies’ as his main reason. Trottimus dressed in a biohazard suit for the event.

The door parts to reveal a centerpiece shaped like a playground within a cafe styled setting. Nilesy sports a waiter’s outfit. He holds his hands out wide. With a bright smile, he cheerfully welcomes people inside. He’s pleased that Lalna turns up, panting and covered in bits of rubbish but clearly grateful to have been invited.

That is also the same day that the cargo door malfunctions. Almost all frigate operations grind to a halt as all fifty cats are rounded up and herded back into the cafe. Nilesy consults his checklist as people bring him his beloved felines. He’s missing one: Lyndon, who’s slipped their collar during the chaos.

Nilesy borrows both of Arsenal’s kraggons, needing their noses to help him. Both kraggons lead him on a magical journey spanning the whole interior, back to Arsenal’s room twice, an extended tour of the bridge, through the gym, under Ravs’ bar (thankfully not under his kilt).

Arden and Dick skid to a halt outside Rythian’s room. Both scratch at themselves, huffing and panting. Nilesy tugs on their leashes. Both stay put, heads turning to face the door. Nilesy glances at the leashes clutched in his hand; he drops them. Arden and Dick toddle off to Arsenal’s room, squeezing through the kraggon-sized flap in the door and vanishing from view.

Nilesy tests the door by extending a finger and prodding the keypad by the grip. It’s protocol to lock rooms once they’re empty but Arsenal noted that not all the doors locked properly, owing to pending repairs and old circuitry overlooked during the inspections. The door slides open.

Junior bobs close to the ceiling, turning loops in the air. Nilesy offers a small wave, turning on the light. He shushes Junior when they float down to meet him. He’s stopped being startled when they seem to appear out of nowhere like a bean-shaped spectre.

“I’m on a secret mission, so don’t tell Rythian that I’ve been here. You too, Vox.” Nilesy begins searching Rythian’s room. 

Rythian’s room is fairly basic in its fittings. Nilesy pokes through several stacks of books by the bed (neatly made, all pillows but one shoved to one side), noting down what titles are for next book club’s meeting. He grins, wondering if Rythian can think he can read his mind if he lists the titles before Rythian can reveal them.

A distinctive meow echoes in Rythian’s closet. Nilesy dives for it, yanking the door wide open and glaring into the space inside. His kitten playfully bats at Rythian’s spare scarves wrapped around hangers, launching off the ground to try to drag the entire lot down to the floor and wreck them with a good clawing.

Nilesy grabs the kitten around the middle. The kitten protests, mewling and turning their round eyes to face him. He shakes his head. Clutching them close, he moves to leave. He shouldn’t even be in Rythian’s room to begin with.

Vox cuts the lights, filling the room with darkness. Nilesy retracts his foot, shuffling to the back of the darkened closet. The kitten wriggles in his hands, tail lashing left and right in agitation for interrupting playtime.

Nilesy pulls the closet door shut, leaving himself a crack to breathe and see through. Mumbling to Junior, Rythian strides past the closet, tugging off his coat. Grimacing, Rythian pats himself down, gingerly tugging strands of cat hairs from his shirt to toss them into the bin. He gives up within five minutes, sighing in defeat. 

Nilesy transfers the kitten to one arm, stuffing his own knuckles into his mouth. His kitten stays silent, transfixed by the silence. 

Rythian drags his shirt over his head, exposing his chest and back. Nilesy’s teeth aren’t as sharp as cat teeth but in that second, he bites his own scars into his knuckles.

It explains why Zoeya never touches Rythian’s back when she hugs him on her visits, and how Ravs never delivers one of his bowling pats to his back, plus why Teep never jabs him, even as a joke along his spine. Rythian never sits with his shoulders touching a chair’s backing (even with cushioning padding it). 

It’s awful, all those burn scars forming a set of slitted eyes that appear to have slid shut, pinched by a delicate latticework of skin.

Rythian reaches for the closet door. Holding his breath, Nilesy turns into a statue. Rythian doesn’t even pause, reaching past him to rummage for a shirt amongst the shelves behind Nilesy. Nilesy plucks a clean one from a pile, handing it to him.

“Thanks,” Rythian automatically says, pulling it on. He fixes it into place with a few tugs, turning away. Nilesy nods and closes the door, not trusting himself to speak for a few seconds or risk puking on Rythian’s boots. 

Rythian’s mind replays the last few seconds. He whirls around. “NILESY!” He screams, throwing aside the closet door. It slams into the wall with a giant thud. Junior rattles in the air, claws scratching at the ceiling tiles.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to stickybeak, but my kitten snuck in here somehow!” Nilesy hefts the kitten into the air like a furry shield. The kitten squirms in his palms, legs kicking at his distant chest.

“How’d you get in?” Rythian runs a hand through his hair and over his face.

“Your door’s busted.”

“Oh. That explains how Teep stole all my jerky and left healthy snacks instead.”

Rythian and Nilesy stand in awkward silence. “I’m sorry. I’ll give you a card for a week of free visits to the cat cafe downstairs?” Nilesy offers. “I kind of saw something I shouldn’t have.”

“What’d you see?” Rythian carefully inquires. “Hopefully not all the banned books I hid?”

“No. Your back.” Nilesy can’t stand looking at Rythian, switching his gaze to Junior.

Rythian’s face is unreadable, and then he sighs. It sounds so matter-of-fact; he settles on his bed, folding his hands on top of his knees, tying his fingers together in a loose cage, appearing to think.

Nilesy drops his kitten to the floor. The kitten proceeds to stick their nose under Rythian’s bed. Rythian teleports a treat into his hand, letting them chew it out of his bandaged palm. They headbutt his hand for more. Nilesy delivers, coaxing them back to his side.

“You know that my back’s not that big of a secret amongst our friends, right?” Rythian says, in a gentle voice.

“Nope,” Nilesy says.

“I found out that in order for Lalnable to save me from a bullet, he had to basically rip my shirt off in front of a few people. Not how I’d like my back to be shown, but I understand that he didn’t have any choice.”

“I’m still sorry–“

“I appreciate your apology,” Rythian interrupts. He smiles. “But really, it’s no big deal.” He absently scratches the kitten behind their ears. They nuzzle his hand, walking small circles by his leg to follow his hand. He smiles dryly. “And I really don’t mind if you need to run and throw up.”

“Thank you, and keep an eye on the kitten until I’m back,” Nilesy says in one relieved breath, and rushes off to go do so.

\--

Hollie’s life is as mundane as it can be when attending to a medical bay drifting through the stars. She’s the head nurse, and Lalnable is her trusted colleague. Parvis is in training as a field medic. 

She helps tutor him sometimes, when Lalnable’s too busy to make time for him. Parvis appreciates her help, always. His fellow band members Sparkles, Kogie and Leo didn’t sink as much time as he did into the visits, preferring the easier route of learning first aid, trusting Parvis with the heavier stuff. Parvis didn’t mind. He seemed to concentrate easier without the three tagging along.

When she’s not in the medical bay, she’s in the mess hall, the recreation lounge or with Minty. Hollie’s constantly testing the waters with her new girlfriend (and former boss), dipping a toe in at a time. Minty dived in right away, but offered a hand to help ease Hollie in. 

It’s easier when she thinks of Minty as the person she followed out of New Haven and into the chaotic world of banditry. People often thought that Minty’s years as a sheriff would have softened her; they’re wrong. Minty has an edge that time’s never dulled, though these days she wields a bureaucratic gun than her trusty six shooter.

She also has a knack for saying weird shit. It’s a side of her that doesn’t appear often, or at least, in the public limelight. Hollie could compile them into a book and make some neat cash, and Minty wouldn’t mind a bit. She’d probably want a share of it.

“Thees boob physics are horrible,” Minty remarks. She lounges on the couch like a restless cat still trying to find the one position that’s comfortable. 

Hollie knows better than to spit the sip she’s just taken. “Minty, it’s real life,” She responds, keeping her voice neutral. Daltos and Arsenal warned her that Minty thrived on encouragement, both positive and negative.

“Exactly,” Minty agrees, nodding along. Hollie offers a sigh. This causes a certain glint to appear in Minty’s eyes. She slaps a hand across her chest. “Are ya slapping, cowboy?”

Water slides its way up Hollie’s nose via the back of her throat, spraying across the table. “Minty!” She coughs as Minty throws her head back and roars with laughter.

Hollie could honestly apply for a day off to follow Minty around. That’s technically stalking, but it’s not if she’s having lunch with her. Lalnable wouldn’t approve of such frivolous behaviour anyway. 

Arsenal slides onto the mess hall bench beside Hollie. Arden and Dick are harassing the floor for leftovers, scooting around on their bellies to vacuum up crumbs and forgotten tidbits, tongues feeling along the floor every few seconds. Hollie lifts her leg to let Arden slide under her. Arsenal appears not to give a shit if the two kraggons eventually throw up an entire garbage bag’s worth of abandoned food.

“Hey,” Minty says to him as he digs into Honeydew’s bangers and mash.

“Hey,” Arsenal says around a mouthful of mash.

Hollie stares at the ceiling, hoping that Minty’s not going to do what she thinks she’s going to do. “Minty, no–“

Minty raises a hand, and slaps her chest. “Are ya slapping, cowboy?”

For a few awful seconds, Arsenal stops chewing. Hollie pushes her tray away, preparing to thump him on the back if he’s about to choke. It’ll be the fifth time this week then. Arsenal swallows, with obvious effort. Hollie relaxes, but stays tense, dreading his delayed reaction. Minty raises a barely concerned eyebrow.

Arsenal puts down his fork. He crumples onto the floor, sliding off his chair, dissolving into a string of giggles that metamorphose into silent, hysterical laughter, complete with actual tears. Arden and Dick double back to check on him, sniffing. Deciding that he’s fine, they casually trott off to munch on someone’s upturned plate of sausages.

“She’s been doing that to random people all week,” Hollie explains when he has to pause for air. “I can’t stop her.”

“It’s been wild,” Minty dryly says, looking exceptionally satisfied that she can add another point to her victim count.

“Never change, Minty,” Arsenal gasps once Hollie’s popped him back onto his seat. “Besides, you can’t change her mind once she decides to make it a thing.”

\--

The end of Zylus’ shift is marked by a switch in captains, or designated underlings. This time, Zylus is relieved by Arsenal, who rattles in on a stolen office chair (Sherlock’s, again). 

Daltos pulled a double shift to help Zylus iron out a few issues with Vox’s simulations, so he’s not back on for a day. Vox doesn’t have BebopVox’s complete archives at their disposal, but BebopVox is still working on transferring their archives over, battle by battle. Until then, Vox spends their time studying other resources.

Daltos stretches, his arms traveling high over his head. Yawning, he arches his back. The hem of his jacket rides up, taking his shirt with it; Zylus gets an eyeful of bare skin barely wider than a few fingers.

Ditching his chair, Arsenal props his chin on Zylus’ shoulder. “Mmm, gotta love that view.” He smells of singed hair; ashes flake off his shirt. His kraggons must have been spoiled with coal again.

Zylus sucks in a breath that prevents him from responding. He shakes a grinning Arsenal off and rushes to the exit. Daltos joins him there, oblivious to being ogled.

Glad he wasn’t caught, Zylus takes one step out of the bridge’s door when Arsenal shouts across the room. “Hey Daltos, you forgot Zylus’ butt!” Zylus puts his foot down and swivels around, deeply confused.

The bridge crew muffles snickers and averts multiple glances in his direction, trying not to watch his reaction. Being Daltos and Arsenal’s former bandits, the bridge crew mostly fails.

Daltos is also turning, raising his hands in the air over his head. “Throw it over!”

“Catch!” Arsenal lobs it over with an underarm throw. Daltos catches it. The bridge crew clap and cheer, hastily quieting at Zylus’ expression.

Zylus stares at a cushion with ‘Zylus’ plush, cushy tush’ scribbled on it in marker. A muscle under one of his eyes twitches. Daltos strides past him, holding the cushion under one arm. Zylus grabs his arm once they’re in the hallway, causing him to end up in front of him.

“Why do you have a cushion named after my butt?” Zylus hisses.

“What? It’s your most defining feature! We all voted on it.”

“Who’s  _ ‘we?’” _

“Bunch of folks at the last quiz night that you skipped. Don’t worry, Ravs’ ass also made the cut.  _ I _ voted for you, obviously.” Daltos looks pleased with himself. “And won.”

“My butt isn’t my defining feature!” Zylus is offended that he’d still be subjected to this kind of teasing _ .  _ Then again, maybe he’d been too optimistic about everyone easing off any pranks so soon.

“Wanna touch it and find out why?” Daltos offers, removing the cushion to present it with a grin.

“No,” Zylus bluntly says.

“Your loss.” Daltos lifts a hand to tenderly caress the cushion, all while staring Zylus down. 

Zylus punches him in the face, which sets off Vox’s fisticuffs alarm and causes Martyn to appear and intervene. Martyn tries not to react to the situation (lips twitching at the sight of the cushion), sending both down to Lalnable to get treatment. 

In the medical bay, Lalnable squints at the empty incident form. “I can’t believe I have to fill one out for this bullshit.” He breathes through his nose, peering over his desk at Zylus and Daltos. “Explain to me what happened?”

Both are sitting in front of him. Daltos holds an ice pack to his cheek. He’s still holding onto the cushion. Zylus refuses to look at him, arms crossed over his chest.

“Zylus didn’t want to touch his own butt,” Daltos summarises. Zylus immediately kicks the leg of his chair, moving it an inch or two.

Lalnable drops his pen and shoves the piece of paper at Zylus. “This is entirely Minty’s department, not mine.”

So the two troop off to Minty’s office. Minty handles the cushion onto her desk. She had to clear away two full ashtrays, a stack of paperwork, nine coffee cups, a stress ball in the shape of a full moon, and a bulging folder full of reports. 

Zylus wants to snatch the cushion out of her hands, feeling oddly protective of it for some ridiculous reason.

“Is this the aforementioned butt?” Minty peers at it.

“Indeed,” Daltos says, grinning. She grins back.

“Make him stop,” Zylus pleads.

“I dunno, it’s a mighty fine butt.” Minty starts patting the cushion.

“You’re supposed to be fair!” Zylus doesn’t raise his voice, but he does add a little annoyance to his gaze. Minty’s not paying attention to him.

“I wanna keep it.”

“Sure,” Daltos easily says.

“No!”

“Boys, I’m getting some mixed messages from you two.” Pat, pat, pat, pat, pat, pat.

“You can’t have the real one though,” Daltos points out.

“Excuse me, my butt is not up for negotiation!” Zylus flushes.

“Which butt?” Daltos innocently asks.

“Good springines,” Minty says, squeezing the cushion.

“The real one!” Zylus exasperatedly hisses.

“So, Minty can definitely have your fake butt?” Daltos asks.

“I’m losing track of this conversation,” Zylus mutters under his breath, already sensing imminent defeat.

Minty slaps the cushion. It springs back into shape a few seconds after. “It’s a keeper!” She declares.

“Uh.” Zylus stares at her. 

Daltos clears his throat. “He knows that I know that you know that you’re doing that on purpose.”

“What, you mean this?” Minty slaps the cushion once more for good measure. Zylus swallows, averting his gaze to her nearest paperweight (a mishappen rock that looks like it fell off the back of a kraggon).

“Yeah, that,” Daltos clarifies. His voice suppresses obvious amusement. Zylus glares at him.

“Well, here’s my hot take on the situation.” Minty leans back, twiddling her thumbs. “Zylus’ plush, cushy tush is here to stay, and it’s now mine, since he’s clearly not happy with you keeping it.”

Daltos looks crestfallen. He turns to Zylus. “Are you happy, Zylus? You’ve taken away my only joy in life.” Zylus refuses to comment. “Great, he’s now mad at me.”

“Zylus, just turn the other cheek,” Minty advises, with a shit-eating grin. 

Zylus stands up and throws his hands into the air, a perfect impression of Rythian. “I’m done! I’m out! Keep the stupid cushion!” He storms out of the room as Minty and Daltos crack up. “I don’t care anymore!”

\--

– / / NOW PLAYING ECHO LOG. / / –

Sips: Haven’t seen a face like yours in a while. Two faces, actually.

Nanosounds: I’m here for you, he’s here for Sjin.

Daltos: You can stop reaching for the security button, I’m just here to drop something off. Don’t worry, it’s not life-threatening.

Sips: I’ll buzz you in, but you try anything funny, I’m kicking your ass, Bandit Guy or not.

Daltos: I’ll keep that in mind. Hi Elsa!

Elsa: Mwror!

Sips: How’s your new arm?

Nanosounds: Fine, fine. Taking some getting used to.

Sips: Want a drink or anything? I got some rakk ale in the fridge. 

Nanosounds: No thanks. Since I brought someone with me, let’s make this qick. The final paperwork’s almost ready, there’s just one teensy detail I need to talk to you about.

Sips: What is it?

Nanosounds: You can keep your company but I want you to initially back us.

Sips: Just you or your little league of Vault Hunters?

Nanosounds: Here’s my proposal. I’ll wait while you read it.

Sips: ...What’s in it for me if I sign?

Nanosounds: Profit, and the ability to keep mining eridium in peace.

Sips: Didn’t Sjin learn his lesson with eridium?

Nanosounds: We’re doing this quietly, but I want you to mine the stuff but in its raw form.

Sips: Is this for that Vault Hunter of yours? What’s his name, Rythian?

Nanosounds: It’s for me, actually. 

Sips: Interesting. 

Nanosounds: the way I see it, I’ll need some sort of backup if Rythian runs into something that he can’t handle, I got him covered.

Sips: You save him, you save the rest of us.

Nanosounds: That’s the plan! You in?

Sips: If you come across anything that’ll make my life a little easier in mining the stuff, pass it here, would you?

Nanosounds: I’ll ask Rythian. He’s got loads of things floating around in that head of his. 

Sips: Perfect. Bam, signed. Well, that concludes our chat!

Nanosounds: How’s Sjin?

Sips: He’s going to therapy between hospital appointments. Under house arrest for the moment. 

Nanosounds: He should be in jail.

Sips: That’s not for you to decide, that’s me.

Daltos: You ready? We can go now.

Nanosounds: See you, Sips.

Sips: What’d you leave with Sjin?

Daltos: Just a fancy lighter. He wasn’t talkative, so I just left it on his table.

Sips: I’ll go and get it so he doesn’t set something on fire. Never know with kids these days. 

Daltos: Bye Elsa, don’t eat too many scraps.

– / / NOW ENDING ECHO LOG. / / –

\--

– / / NOW PLAYING ECHO LOG. / / –

Lalnable: Do excuse me, Sherlock, Nanosounds requires my attention.

Sherlock: Oh, not a problem. I’ll just keep instructing Parvis in the art of filing things correctly in my office.

Parvis: I’m still learning how to read!

Sherlock: Not a proper excuse, considering you’ve known how to read for at least a year by now.

Nanosounds: I think he enjoys having a bandit be scared of him a little too much.

Lalnable: You must be joking, Parvis is as scary as a wet paper bag.

Nanosounds: Anyway, what’d you want me for?

Lalnable: I have an acquaintance I’m curious about. She resembles you, and I was wondering if you had any connections.

Nanosounds: It depends? My mother’s side of the family is just me and her. Not sure about my father’s side since he was just a donor.

Lalnable: She implied you two might be related once she got wind of my activities on board  _ The Blackrock. _

Nanosounds: Who is she?

Lalnable: She is a reputable psychiatrist who just so happens to be one of my offworld contacts. She helps ship goods to me.

Nanosounds: So, you want me to meet her as a favour?

Lalnable: If you can manage it, what with your busy schedule.

Nanosounds: No, I’d be happy to! I’ve never known any other kids when I was growing up, so maybe it’d be nice having some more family for a change.

Lalnable: Ah, and as for your ambitions, I’d be happy serving as a medical officer. 

Nanosounds: Great! This thing’s slowly coming together.

Lalnable: Any trouble with your new arm?

Nanosounds: Sometimes I get odd twinges like I still have my old arm.

Lalnable: Just some phantom pain. Ask Lalna to run a fine tune calibration on it.

– / / NOW ENDING ECHO LOG. / / –

\--

– / / NOW PLAYING ECHO LOG. / / –

Will Strife: Close the door a little more gently, would you! Uh. Nano? You okay?

Nanosounds: OOOHHHHH, I WANT TO SLAP HER SO MUCH!

Will Strife: Take a stress ball. What’s wrong?

Nanosounds: I HATE HER!

Will Strife: Who?

Nanosounds: MY HALF SISTER, THAT’S WHO!

Will Strife: I didn’t know you had a half sister!

Nanosounds: Bah, she’s not in the family tree since her dad donated his genes as a business favour to my mother. Thanks for the water.

Will Strife: You met her?

Nanosounds: Just got back. Lalnable asked me to meet her since she wanted it. They’re old coworkers.

Will Strife: Uh-huh. What’d she look like?

Nanosounds: Well, she’s a little younger than I am, but not by that much, and she’s actually kind of classy but she gives off Lalnable vibes. Like, ‘grouchy and running on only four hours of sleep’ vibes.

Will Strife: Yikes. What about personality/

Nanosounds: That’s the thing! She’s kind of snobby as well! And I don’t know if that’s just how she is or if she just hates me!

Will Strife: And you’ve never met this woman before? Done anything to earn her ire?

Nanosounds: If I ever met her before, I would have slapped her long ago.

Will Strife: You don’t have to get along with everyone you meet—

Nanosounds: I wanted a sister! I wanted someone else who could be family! It’s unfair she’d be a bitch and if I did anything wrong, she’s not saying why!

Will Strife: It’s okay, you’ll never have to meet her ever again. I’ll go get you some hot chocolate, and you can stay in my office while I finish some important stuff. After that, do you want to go to movie night? Or do you want to be left alone?

Nanosounds: I don’t want to be alone.

Will Strife: Sit tight. I’ll go wrangle us a couple mugs of hot chocolate. 

Nanosounds: Thank you, Will.

Will Strife: No problem. 

– / / NOW FASTFORWARDING ECHO LOG. / / –

– / / NOW PLAYING ECHO LOG. / / –

Will Strife: Hello, I’d like to speak to Miss...Fives. It’s about Lalnable. Urgent. No, I can’t wait. Alright, thank you.

Fives: To whom am I speaking to? 

Will Strife: My name is Will Strife, and this isn’t about Lalnable, it’s about Nanosounds. I don’t know what your problem is with her, but I think the way you treated her was abysmal.

Fives: Oh, she has friends! That’s cute.

Will Strife: Better one friend than none.

Fives: I’ll admit that I was a little harsh in my initial judgement of her. It’s just, I wasn’t expecting a Siren to meet me with half her left arm hanging out of  _ bandages _ . 

Will Strife: Drop the tone. Her arm prosthetic is still undergoing adjustments after an incident. That has no bearing on what kind of person she is.

Fives:  _ Arm prosthetic? _

Will Strife: It’s very lifelike, isn’t it?

Fives: Oh dear, I wasn’t expecting her to be so weak.

Will Strife: I can see why she’d be distressed after meeting you. Why did you meet with her if you had such a low opinion?

Fives: I met her with the intention of befriending her. After all, it’s not everyday you get to be buddies with a Siren, let alone related to one. She might have come in useful at some point, I suppose.

Will Strife: She’s not a weapon you can point at your enemies!

Fives: Calm down, Strife. I don’t intend on approaching her again. Frankly, if she can’t handle one person looking to strike meteor gold with her reputation, I don't know how she’ll fare once all the admirers come knocking.

Will Strife: So you were also testing her?

Fives: Surely you didn’t think I was just meeting her out of the goodness of my heart?

Will Strife: You’ve got some nerve.

Fives: What would you like me to do, apologize?

Lalnable: That’d be greatly appreciated but not necessary, if you can’t find even one scrap of guilt. Let’s switch to one of our usual channels.

Will Strife: Lalnable! I was in a private conversation!

Lalnable: Not as private as you think. Fives, I’m disappointed. I expected a more civil attitude, not for you to tear apart Nanosounds!

Fives: Look, it’s a little complicated on my end. Father thinks I should cosy up with her while she’s acquainted with Rythian, and while I’d love to get to know her better, I just can’t do so in good conscience at the moment. 

Will Strife: So you intentionally botched the meeting.

Fives: I was surprised she didn’t explode the cafe we were sitting in. Poor dear looked ready to clock me.

Lalnable: I can still pass on an apology.

Fives: No, I’ll do it myself when I contact her again.

Will Strife: I think it’d be best if you don’t.

Lalnable: I’ll at least let her know that you’re being watched. 

Fives: Thank you. I have a client waiting, so I’m going to wrap this up. Pleasure meeting you, Strife. Toodles, Lalnable.

Will Strife: So, that’s Fives.

Lalnable: Yes.

Will Strife: Is she usually like this?

Lalnable: Yes, and no. Her father owns a bunch of hospitals, so her attitude’s a bit...showy at times. And she has a bigger workload than I do. But I won’t make excuses for her. I don’t blame you if you have a bad taste in your mouth from this talk.

Will Strife: What were you thinking, asking for her to meet with Nanosounds?

Lalnable: I thought that they would actually want to be proper relatives. 

Will Strife: Hm. Well, it’s up to Nanosounds if she wants to meet Fives again. Hopefully fives drops the attitude by then.

– / / NOW ENDING ECHO LOG. /

\--

“Hey, he approved our request for a bigger room.” Trottimus closes the tab in which Arsenal’s message appeared in.

“Didn’t think he would.” Alsmiffy fluffs his pillow. “Doesn’t he hate my guts after I stole his rocket launcher?”

“I think that’s all water under the bridge.” Trottimus begins stuffing belongings into his inventory. 

“Yeah, since we saved the universe and everything!” Alsmiffy stacks his gas masks on top of the mannequin’s head he won off Heinkel, Ravs’ bartending assistant. Heinkel had been rather ruffled by their loss, however fairly Alsmiffy had won. He didn’t want to know the history of said head, thanks, even if Minty offered to translate Heinkel’s ramblings.

“I’ve told Ross we’re moving rooms. He’s still at his appointment with Hollie.“

“I still can’t get over the fact that we’re getting free medical care!” Alsmiffy marvels at his healed skin; not a single scratch or mark tarnishes the skin that’d been burned beyond recognition back in the Vault of the Queen. “And free food! And boarding!”

“Hey, it’s only free until we reach Pandora again,” Trottimus reminds.

“Why’re we going to Pandora again?” Alsmiffy distractedly kicks one of his gas canisters under the bed. Reaching after it conceals his mildly trembling hands.

“We’re not, but we’ve got until then to make up our minds about whether or not we’re staying on  _ The Blackrock. _ ” Trottimus explains. It sounds like he’s been chewing on the idea for a while.

Alsmiffy removes himself from under his bed without cracking it on the metal underside. “Since when’d you decide for us?”

“You and Ross were out cold from the painkillers when Zylus dropped by to ask if we had a destination in mind, and I panicked and said Pandora!” Trottimus defensively glares at Alsmiffy.

“You didn’t say anything until now!” Alsmiffy sighs. “Look, you’re our unofficial leader, and I don’t have a problem if you decide to keep secrets, but maybe clue us in every now and then, would you? We’re a team.” He scratches the back of his head, where a bit of ginger hair is pokes freely from the confines of his gas mask.

Trottimus laughs, so gently that Alsmiffy is worried that he might be ready to cut loose and run, but Trottimus’ expression is a mix of gratitude and fondness. “I forget that, sometimes.”

“So why’d you wait?” Alsmiffy awkwardly jerks his head towards the doorway. “You wanted to tell us both at the same time or what?”

“I wanted to wait until Ross got back from his appointment so that if we have to, we can stay until we know more about his CLL.”

“Oh yeah.” Alsmiffy shakes his head. “Awful considerate of you.”

“That, and Nanosounds left us a bunch of info about something she’s cooking up about us being legit Vault Hunters.”

“Seriously?”

“No pressure. Just an expression of interest, is what’s on the paper here.”

“I think we should talk to Ross, but if he wants to, and you’re on board, I’ll throw my name in too.”

\--

Panda pings the three for a meeting from one of the recreation rooms. Alsmiffy, Trottimus and Ross troop in, expecting a fight of sorts. The message had been frustratingly cryptic, consisting of ‘hey lets talk’, with an attachment consisting of a smiley face.

Trottimus sees no reason to be suspicious. After all, Panda helped them greatly during the last battle on Pandora when they had no reason to. This goes against the other mercenaries that the trio dealt with. Then again, Panda’s a bounty hunter, and still are, unless they’d decided to switch to being a Vault Hunter for good. They haven’t declared anything yet.

Alsmiffy and Ross don’t mind attending the meeting either, expressing the same opinion as Trottimus.

The room is attached to another one. This one is filled with a virtual reality station, helmets and headsets littering a corner. Game machines line almost all the walls. Panda is standing by a pinball machine, twiddling and punching the dials attached to one part of it. The tiny silver ball ricochets about, slamming into the appropriate gadgets and lighting up signs and scores. The trio watch, entranced.

Panda’s last ball clunks into the dead zone. The high score flashes at them, numbering in the ‘6000’s’, which appears to be okay for Panda. They grunt, entering in their initials and turn to the trio watching them.

“Hey, nice of you to rock up,” They greet.

“So, what’d you want us for? Better not be cashing in our bounties.” Trottimus always leads in these types of chats. He’s quick with his words and thinking, and Alsmiffy and Ross can take their cues from him.

“We’re low on operatives chasing Vaults and stuff. Teep and I can’t keep up with the requests Rythian’s putting in, and with Strife looking after outside missions, it’s getting kind of ridiculous.” Panda offers the pinball machine to the three, stepping aside. Ross slots a coin in and begins to play, riveted by all the colours and lights flashing at him.

“What’s in it for us?”

“You get paid way more than what you’re doing, running all those little schemes from your room.” Panda shrugs.

“How’d you know?” Alsmiffy asks before Trottimus can say anything.

“Hard to miss all the stuff you’re getting from Arsenal.” Panda raises an eyebrow.

“You thinking of stopping us?” Alsmiffy challenges, flexing. Well, more flexing like his gauntletless hand.

“Nope. You do whatever you want, but I want to know if you’re in as official Vault Hunters.”

“What do we get?” Trottimus interrupts before Alsmiffy can fuck this up. 

“I hope there’s dental.” Ross turns, his nose twitching. He’s lost his balls one after another and also senses Alsmiffy’s irritation.

Alsmiffy smacks Ross in the arm. “Dental? We want a health insurance and all that, just in case we get fucked up majorly and stuff.”

“Teeth are important!” Ross fires back at him.

“You get that,” Panda says. “It’s pretty good. It’s already covering my prosthetic replacement.”

“What about Trott’s skin problems?”

“I don’t have skin problems!”

“Yeah, those too. Lalnable has a clause just for that.”

“What else?” Trottimus glares at his two companions.

“Uh...we’ll ask if we think of more.” Alsmiffy scratches at his gas mask. “I had a list, but I think it’s back in our room.”

“You don’t have to sign up right away, I’m just checking your interest.” Panda grins. “But yeah, it’s a pretty good gig, and I’m also your backup if you suck.”

_ “Suck?”  _ Trottimus exclaims with Alsmiffy.

“You think we might  _ suck?” _ Ross echoes.

“You’re good, but not great, if you get my drift.” Panda makes a so-so gesture with a hand. “But if you agree to some training, it might bring you up to my level.”

Trottimus, Alsmiffy and Ross huddle to talk over Panda’s offer. Panda doesn’t mind, picking up another game on the wall to occupy themself with. There’s almost no downsides, except that it’s Panda training them. It might be tough, but it can’t compare to the difficulties the three suffered when they’d started out as amateur conmen and thieves. Plus, that might earn some more gratitude from the other Vault Hunters, and a bunch of new allies if they ever decide to leave  _ The Blackrock. _

“We’re in,” Ross informs Panda once the huddle’s split off.

“Great!” Panda shakes each of their hands. “Welcome aboard. I’ll just go and get Teep and we can do some basic training started.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Alsmiffy howls. “You didn’t mention anything about that bastard!”

“Yeah! We don’t want nothing to do with them!” Ross flexes a clawed hand, brandishing it like a wave to disperse a bad smell.

“What do they have to do with this?” Trottimus crosses his arms and squints at Panda.

Panda laughs. “Teep’ll get your accuracy sorted soon, and I’m in charge of the other stuff. They don’t want break you three, after all.”

“Where’s this located?” Trottimus quizzes, relaxing somewhat that Teep isn’t 100% in charge of the training.

“Digistruct Peak. Don’t worry, it’s in the virtual reality room so we’re not going anywhere.” Panda jerks their thumb in the direction of the headsets. “Might wanna pee first, though.”

A week into the training and Alsmiffy, Ross and Trottimus decide that they should have made better choices in life than being forced to endure Panda’s hellish obstacle courses and Teep’s gruelling training regime.

\--

Lalna’s room on  _ The Blackrock _ is a hop, jump and skip from the medical bay. Sadly it’s right next door to Arsenal and checking that the door isn’t booby-trapped has become a daily habit.

His own workshop is space shared with Lalnable (negotiated pre-repairs and construction). It’s crammed with everything he could possibly need to build, create, repair and if need be, destroy, to his heart’s content. This is the fruit of Ridgedog’s contributions, as part of their condition for letting them spend time with Larry Robert.

He supposes he  _ trusts _ Ridgedog with Larry Robert; he’s asked Larry Robert for their opinion. The Loader doesn’t mind, but Lalna has a suspicion that Larry Robert is just obligated to say that to placate him. Obsessively combing through Larry Robert’s programming after these meetings for any modifications or dampeners and finding none alleviates the worst of Lalna’s fears of Ridgedog tampering.

It still bothers Lalna. There’s nothing particularly special about Larry Robert, and Larry Robert behaves as they always did: methodically and obliging, to the point of butlery.

A part of him hates himself for trading Larry Robert in exchange for a bunch of fancy tech, but he has Ridgedog’s word that Larry Robert won’t come to any harm whatsoever. So far, Ridgedog’s upheld their end of the bargain.

Wandering  _ The Blackrock _ gives Lalna’s feet something to do. On the other hand, being kidnapped gives his mind plenty to deal with.

One minute, he’s strolling through one of the lesser known hallways. In the next, there’s running footsteps, then a cloth sack being yanked over his head. Muffled and excited voices shush each other. Lalna’s hands are forced into handcuffs; his world spins as he’s manhandled off the ground, hustled off like he’s limp cargo.

Terrified, he keeps his mouth shut. The sack reeks of bread flour. Whoever’s nabbed him isn’t making much of an effort to keep quiet. Someone giggles, dementedly. Someone else hastily shushes them. Lalna’s turned, shoved and corralled along in eight different directions before the handcuffs on his hand take a sharp left.

A rough yank forces him onto a chair, the edges hitting the back of his knees. Yelping, Lalna flops onto it. The front of his forehead wets the front of the sack with sweat. Footsteps rush around him. Something scrapes against the floor.

Someone yanks the sack off his head. Dusted by flour, Lalna coughs, cracking open his eyes to squint at his kidnappers. He regrets it as light sears his eyeballs. A polished metal lamp shines upon him. Through the blistering pain, he can make out a few human shapes. A black shape steps closer until they’re in front of him, their head blocking the light.

“Daltos?” Lalna mumbles.

“Oh look, he hasn’t forgotten me,” Daltos dryly says. The people with him chuckle, keeping to the edges of the room. Lalna hazards that they’re all his former lieutenants. Daltos is holding a bladed pistol in one hand. For now, it’s pointing at the floor.

Lalna closes his eyes, dreading what’s in store for him. “Just get it over and done with.”

“Get what over and done with?” Daltos raises a confused eyebrow.

“Killing me?”

“What? No, I don’t want to kill you!” The pistol vanishes from his hand. “I just want to ask you to make something for me!” Daltos pauses. “Or rather, a bunch of somethings.”

“What?” Lalna cracks open an eye, interest piqued. “Then why’d you kidnap me?”

Daltos ignores the second part. “I want fifteen or sixteen of those tractor beam thingies you made.”

Lalna has to devote more brain power than he’d like to deduce what Daltos is talking about. “Like the mining rig one?”

“Yeah, except they have to be smaller, so they can fit on the underside of the frigate.”

“Why?”

“In this room, I ask the questions, not you.” Daltos plants a boot between Lalna’s legs, a not so subtle reminder of who’s in charge. It shouldn’t be arousing. Lalna mentally slaps himself upside the head.

“You gonna do it or not?” Daltos smirks, which doesn’t really help. “Unless you can’t. Guess I’ll have to ask somebody else–”

“I never said I couldn’t!” Pride offended, Lalna’s head jerks up so that he’s glaring at Daltos. He doesn’t quite achieve the same sort of intimidation, thanks to his watering eyes. Curiosity overrides fear (and his faint arousal). “When do you need them by?”

“Next time the frigate lands for refuelling.”

“That soon?” Lalna gasps. “You’re refuelling in a month’s time!”

“Better get cracking then.” Daltos removes his boot and snaps his fingers. His lieutenants untie Lalna, shoving him out the door and slamming it shut behind him. Except it’s yanked open a second later, left ajar so they can watch him through the gap.

“Hey, we’re going the same way as him, right?” Hawker nudges Daltos.

“No,” Daltos stresses.

“Yes, the bridge is that way.” Siebel nods encouragement at Lalna.

“Then let him get a head start so it looks like we’re not following him,” Daltos says.

“Good plan!” Hurricane beams. After a pause, they push the door further to shout down the corridor. “Man, you gone yet?”

“No!” Lalna shouts back.

“Okay!” Hurricane shouts back. “It’s okay to linger, Daltos is a hot guy who just happens to be a bit of a daddy!” Daltos resists the urge to facepalm, craving a cigarette.

It takes Lalna an entire week to reverse engineer his own work. Fortunately, he kept the blueprints so that saves him from having to make it from scratch. Downsizing the rig is easier than he made it out to be. It’s another five days for him to order the parts. He spends the waiting time twiddling his thumbs, oscillating between his own work, procrastination and keeping himself busy so that people don’t invite him anywhere.

Lalnable still drags him to the trivia nights. He avoids Daltos, even if Daltos is only a table away. Daltos hasn’t said anything about making their shared, secret project public. Lalna knows to keep his mouth shut though. Daltos ignores him.

Putting together all sixteen of the miniature tractor beams is a walk in the park. It’s some of his best work yet. The hard part is figuring out how to drop it off without attracting attention.

Lalna eyes Larry Robert, who’s currently recharging in the corner of his workshop. If he sends Larry Robert on a delivery, is he going to get the Loader back in pieces? Best not to risk it. Daltos is unpredictable.

One of his lieutenants cheerfully rocked up to Lalna’s room holding a case of rakk ale as a ‘gift’. Lalna interprets it as a ‘hurry up’ gesture. He dumps the box on Nilesy before Nilesy can question the donation to the frigate’s bar.

Lalna piles each of the completed devices into a cardboard box. He hefts the box into his arms and wanders upstairs. He takes the lift. The lift zooms up to the top of the frigate. The ride is free of people. Lalna steps out, hurrying down the hallway towards Daltos’ room. 

Rythian lives on this floor along with a bunch of other people who’d scored in that one room giveaway lottery. Arsenal’s on shift, thankfully. Lalna double-checks that he’s got the right room against the map in his HUD. Yep. Realising that he doesn’t know the door’s code, he knocks a few times, steeling himself. His metal hand awkwardly clunks on the door. The door slides into the wall half a minute later.

Zylus blinks at Lalna, rubbing his right eye with the palm of his hand. “Lalna? What’s up?” He’s wearing a basic shirt and loose pants, no boots on his feet. His hair stands up on end, sticking up in every direction like wild grass. If Lalna were into dreamy guys, he’d be swooning right now.

“Hi–“ Lalna makes a confused noise that doubles as his question about whether or not he has the right room. Zylus stares at him like he’s gone nuts and is raving Psycho nonsense. Lalna remembers that not everyone’s fluent in dubious noises. “Isn’t this Daltos’ room?”

Zylus’ face flushes an impressive crimson. Before he can respond, Daltos’ voice floats over Zylus’ shoulder. Past Zylus’ shoulder, Daltos is sitting up in bed, smirking. He’s shirtless. “Honey, is that the surprise stripper I hired for your birthday?”

Lalna chokes on his own spit. “No!”

“It’s Lalna!” Zylus retorts, his face further infusing with splotches of telltale red. He rounds on Daltos. “And it’s not my birthday yet!”

“Oh? When’s your birthday?” Daltos heaves himself to the edge of the bed.

“You don’t even  _ know _ my birthday?” Zylus’ tone hurtles into incredulity.

“Sorry, I can’t keep track of everything for you.” Daltos laughs, joining him at the doorway. Fuming, Zylus storms back to the bed to clamber back in, all the sheets pulled up to his chin. Smug at a job well done, Daltos leaves his room. He leads Lalna a little ways down the hallway until they’re standing at a junction.

Lalna tries to pick a place to stare at on Daltos so that he doesn’t look like he’s purposefully checking him out. He settles for Daltos’ eyes; then realises that it looks like he’s captivated by the thin, clear scar marking one eyelid. He goes for his own two feet, except.

“Eyes up here, thanks,” Daltos drawls. “Now that I think about it, you’d make a terrible stripper.”

“I wasn’t perving on you! And stop talking about strippers!” Lalna says. Zylus’ embarrassment is far too contagious. He rubs at the back of his neck. “Anyway, I have the things you asked for.”

Right away, Daltos’ posture transforms. He uncrosses his arms from his chest, peering at Lalna with renewed interest. “So, hand them over.”

When Lalna doesn’t, he narrows his eyes. With his hands on his hips, he looks like he’s about to dropkick Lalna all the way to the cargo holds. Lalna spawns the box, holding it out to him. The contents rattle. Daltos takes the box, looking down. He gingerly prods one of the miniaturized tractor beams. Appearing satisfied, he despawns the box, turning to walk back to his room.

“Is everything okay?” Lalna blurts.

Turning back around, Daltos can’t hide how taken aback he is by the innocent inquiry. He tilts his head, peering at him with suspicion. “Not like you to ask about how I’m doing.”

“You seem really tired lately–“

“Look,  _ Palna, _ you’re not my friend, and will never be.” Daltos sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “You can stop pretending to care. If you gotta care about anyone, care about Zylus.”

“What’s Zylus got to do with this?” Lalna is offended at how his name’s butchered. He’s too scared shitless of Daltos to say anything about it though.

“Keep being his friend.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, ask him to hang out with you or something. He likes tinkering and so do you.” Daltos shrugs.

“You really care about Zylus a lot.”

“I don’t want him to hole up in my room because he feels like he’s a burden as a friend, which I know for a fact that he’s not.” Daltos falls silent. Seeing Lalna peer at him so admiringly, he scowls and marches off back into his room.

Much later, when Lalna’s stopped wondering about the beams, one of his lieutenants collects Lalna from his workshop, the one called ‘Siebel’. Siebel doesn’t say anything to any of Lalna’s questions. Intimidated into silence, Lalna falls quiet, letting himself be escorted upstairs. 

The bridge is as busy as ever, save for one key difference: a deck chair and a small, rounded table. Daltos is sitting in the deck chair, sipping from a cocktail glass. 

“Nice of you to join us up on the bridge tonight,” He says to Lalna like Lalna had any choice in the matter. Siebel unfolds a second deck chair next to him.

Lalna takes it, flopping down. “Aren’t you supposed to be flying this thing?”

“I am, but I don’t see why I can’t multitask.” Daltos swirls his martini. Where did he get the stuff to make the martini from– by a console, Ravs is enthusiastically mixing drinks from a portable bar. Daltos raises his glass. “Martini?”

Lalna squints and almost giggles. The liquid inside is a vivid pink that matches a few of Larry Robert’s stickers. Pink isn’t really Daltos’ colour. Fuck it, why not? So long as Daltos isn’t interrogating him in a dark room again. “Sure.”

“Here you go.” Ravs brings over a martini on a tray before speeding back to his station. It’s the same as Daltos’ drink. Lalna takes it in his real hand. He sips it, the fruity taste leaving a refreshing, tingling trail across his tongue.

“Why’d you call me up here?” Lalna asks him.

Daltos idly waves. One of the bridge crew pulls up a video feed. As it focuses, Lalna stares at the screen. It’s from outside the frigate, on its lower side near the front. Suspended in a familiar beam is a single figure. 

Arsenal has an Oz kit attached to one shoulder. His arms are flung up so it looks like he’s reaching for something on the highest shelf, while his legs are straightened behind him. He looks like he’s flying through space– the audio feed kicks in.

“THIS IS AWESOME!” He screams.

Lalna isn’t sure if he wants to break down into hysterical laughter or slump down at having his beloved inventions be abused so blatantly for the wrong purpose. 

“The things I do for people,” Daltos drawls, looking quietly pleased with himself.

“Question,” Ravs says, putting up his hand. An easy grin is plastered on his face.

“What?”

“Can we have sex in the beam?” He puts his hand down, leaving it atop his sporran.

Lalna sprays a fine mist across the floor at the same time as Daltos rolls his eyes. “Why do you want to know?”

“Asking for a friend!” Ravs cheerfully says. “Yes, or no?”

Lalna scratches the back of his head. He juggles a set of calculations. Ravs watches him; it makes Lalna’s skin break into a mild sweat. “In  _ theory, _ it’s possible.”

“That’s good enough for my friend!”

Daltos snorts. “‘Friend’ my ass.” He motions with his glass to Ravs’ kilt. “Every single time you lie, you touch your sporran.”

“I don’t touch my sporran every time I lie!” Ravs counters.

“Your dick isn’t magnum sized, right?” Daltos smirks, razor sharp.

“It isn’t!” Ravs’ grip tightens on his sporran, just a fraction.

“You’re touching your sporran!”

“Am not!”

“Yes, you are, and your dick is more explosive than a Tediore gun!”

“No, it isn’t, and I’m not touching my sporran now, so ha!”

“No, but your mouth does a special little quirk too!”

“Can I please get another martini? I’m not drunk enough for this,” Lalna mutters, indicating to one of the bridge crew looking sympathetically at him.

\--

Acting on Daltos’ request, Lalna invites Zylus into his workshop. Zylus acts like it’s a matter of life and death. Lalna puzzles over how to approach the situation as the date creeps up on him and Zylus. He wants Zylus to feel as comfortable as possible, giving him another secure space to be himself in.

Zylus has merely traded one outfit for another. He’s wearing the Dahl military jacket instead of the formal one. He’s hiding himself behind it, shying away from people. That, or he’s becoming shy.

Lalna gets biscuits and coffee from Honeydew, leaving a tray on the table. His restlessness won’t let him sit still without fiddling, and if he fucks this up, Daltos will somehow instantly know and string him up outside the frigate without an Oz kit. 

There’s a hesitant knock on the door, followed by a slight pause and then the door’s sliding back. Lalna puts on a welcoming smile. Zylus slips in, throwing a glance behind him. Lalna spots a flash of navy before the door slides shut. 

The two stand there awkwardly. Lalna springs into action. “I got a couple of projects I could use your help on!” His voice is too loud; it echoes around the space. Larry Robert continues dozing in the corner.

Zylus follows him to a bench with a bunch of blueprints laid out across the top. Lalna dumps a toolkit next to him, making him jump. “These are some prosthetics I want to make a prototype of. Tell me what you think of the motors inside?”

Already, Zylus is picking up a blueprint with his fingertips, his eyes skimming over the plans Lalna spent weeks designing. This isn’t Zylus’ jam but this was all Lalna could think of. He looks happier already. He selects a pen and sits down.

He glances at Lalna, flushing slightly. “Is it okay if I draw on these?”

“Go for it!” Lalna keeps a sigh of relief to himself. He moves the tray of coffee and biscuits to beside Zylus. Zylus helps himself to one, munching on it as he starts scribbling away, his margin notes scripted in careful handwriting.

Lalna’s hand touches an empty tray two hours later. The conversation ambled from topic to topic. It stayed well away from Pandora, though Zylus is surprisingly honest about his own life. He confesses to a love of music. Lalna flicks on the radio, putting on one of FyreUK’s famous playlists. Zylus hums along to each of the songs. Not so musically talented, Lalna stays quiet.

Zylus lets him leave the room to go and get some more biscuits. Lalna strolls down the hallways, a spring in his step. He could take on Teep and Arsenal at this point, the two couldn’t ruin his fantastic mood– he stops dead in his tracks. 

Teep and Arsenal converse outside of the kitchen. Arsenal’s leaning on his crutches, his hands as animated as his face. His beloved twin monsters aren’t in plain sight. Lalna begins to back away. There’s a corner he can hide behind. All he has to do is reach it without being spotted. 

Arsenal’s head tips up as he roars with laughter, his eyes crinkled. His grin slides off his face as he spots Lalna. Teep turns as well, picking up on the shift in Arsenal’s expression to stone cold recognition.

Lalna bolts. He skids around the corner, and another, his boots pounding the floor. He can hear running behind him. Lalna barges into a room, vaulting over a table where Trottimus, Ross and Alsmiffy are having a poker game. The three yell at him, shaking fists as they collect their scattered cards and chips up from the floor.

All he knows is that he has to escape. When there’s no more sounds of a chase, Lalna slows. He chuckles, rounding another corner. A gloved hand lunges at him. Screaming, Lalna flails, his body jerking backwards. Teep pins him to the floor.

Arsenal hobbles over, his crutches thumping distinctly on the tiles. “Look who it is! It’s my friend, Palna! Fancy running into you here.” There’s an impressive amount of fake cheer he’s injected into his tone.

Lalna bites the inside of his cheek, holding back a million retorts (none of them kind). Teep keeps him trapped in a chokehold that could effortlessly snap his neck.

> ikr

Teep’s unblocked him at least, if only to mock him.

“What do we do? We can’t just let our good friend  _ Palna _ go without showing how much we appreciate him!” Arsenal hums, tapping his chin with a finger. Did Daltos spread ‘Palna’ around the frigate?

“I could make you a new leg?” Lalna proposes. The plan’s been sitting in his inventory for a long time now; Arsenal’s ignored all messages to come into the workshop, and Lalna’s too scared of him to pressure him to do so. He wishes he had Lalnable’s steel nerves for things like these.

“You implying these crutches suck?” Arsenal roughly jabs him in the stomach with one. “Couldn’t do  _ that _ if I didn’t have them.” He gives a mean grin.

Exhaling sharply, Lalna swallows. The old burn wound on his thigh lances with a sharp, phantom pain. “I haven’t done anything–“

> look at him trying to weasel his way out of some fun

> wheres your sense of adventure

Arsenal’s eyes slide to something behind Lalna and Teep. His face lights up. Lalna’s heart sinks. Whatever he’s got planned, it can’t be good for him. “I know what we can do!” Lalna can’t see Teep’s head turn but he can hear their hood rustle.

> i like the way you think

Arsenal winks at Lalna, moving out of his line of sight. He hears the lid of the bin clunk as it’s presumably removed and dropped onto the floor. “Bring him over!”

Lalna kicks at Teep. Teep stomps on his leg, making pain shoot up it. For a skinny person, Teep hauls him upright with next to no effort, marching him over to the bin. 

> head first or feet first

“Head first,” Arsenal immediately responds. He’s dropped his crutches, leaning on the wall and inclining the bin towards Teep. “Man, this reminds me of the time I hired you to punch people for me. Remember those good times?”

> you should hire me again and ill give you the friend discount

They’re talking about things as if he‘s not present. “Let’s talk this out!” Lalna pleads. “I know what I did, so please–“

> for every word that leaves your mouth im going to drop in a wet paper towel

> so far youre up to twenty-two

“No!”

> thats twenty-three bitch

> lets break a world record tonight

Lalna fires up his mechanical arm, the elbow rocket thruster flaring up; Teep brings out a knife, shoving the blade between the shoulder joint and his bicep. It could easily shear through all the delicate wires keeping his arm alive, and who knows what else. Lalna stills. The thruster dies with a loud whine.

“Oh hey, Daltos!” Arsenal waves.

“Help me!” Lalna screams as he’s dropped in, feet first. Teep jostles him, making the knife bounce and scrape along the inside of the arm. Lalna winces. 

Daltos’ expression remains poker faced. He walks over, eyeing the scene with a furrowed brow. Lalna watches him stand by Arsenal. “What’s going on?”

“We’re just having a bit of harmless fun,” Arsenal lies. He smiles at Lalna.

“This doesn’t look fun,” Daltos observes.

“It isn’t! Teep’s got a knife!!” Lalna inclines his head at Teep. The knife’s gone from his shoulder. Teep pats his face. It comes off as condescending.

> what knife

There’s no way that Daltos didn’t see the knife. Lalna trains his gaze on him as Teep gently forces him further into the bin. Daltos leans over. He picks up the bin’s lid, holding it in both hands with a contemplative expression. Smirking, he drops the lid on Lalna’s head. The falling lid muffles Lalna’s outraged shriek.

Teep duct tapes the lid shut, the tape dispenser squealing as Teep works their way around the circumference. Lalna flinches when the bin’s kicked; he can hear all their laughter and footsteps fade as they abandon him to his fate of being trapped in a bin. He sighs, shifting so that his arm’s not pressing up against the sides.

For a bin, it smells rather clean, like antiseptic and wiper fluid. It’s growing warmer by the second as Lalna quietly panics. How’s he going to escape? His arms are pinned down by his sides. He could spawn Larry Robert, but he can’t exactly dislocate his arm on the spot, not without wrecking the joint. It’ll be a bitch to replace, and joints aren’t cheap on the market right now. He should have dropped Larry Robert and fought, but Larry Robert probably would have died.

After an eternity of bleak darkness, ponderous footsteps pause by him. Lalna rattles the bin from side to side with his weight. He rocks on the spot, peering up in hope. 

“Hey! I’m in here! Save me!” He screams at the top of his voice.

He’s jerked outside, rolling on his side for a few metres before coming to a gentle stop. Panting, Lalna lifts his head. Rythian lowers his hand. Lalna lives close, but he hasn’t had much contact with him, beyond running into each other in the mess hall and that one time he helped Rythian not flunk his first seminar.

“You okay?” Rythian inquires, looking over him with genuine concern. “Do I need to escort you to Lalnable?”

Lalna scrambles to his feet, dusting himself off and trying to maintain his breathing so that he’s not panting. “I’m fine!” Lalnable doesn’t need to hear about his near-death experience either.

“How did you end up in there?” Rythian jerks his thumb at the rolling bin that’s still taped shut. 

“Some stuff happened.” Lalna shudders; ever the sadist, Teep definitely avoided leaving him any breathing holes. Daltos and Arsenal hadn’t spoken up about it either. “It’s okay, it wasn’t that serious.” Rythian’s expression is doubtful, his brow furrowed. His gaze penetrates Lalna. Lalna wipes his sticky hands on his shirt. “Look, I’m used to it.”

“Hm.” Rythian turns his head in the direction that Teep, Arsenal and Daltos had gone. “Lalna, if you ever need any help, you know that I’m here, right?”

“Yeah, I gotcha.” Lalna says. He’d rather not drag Rythian into another one of his messes.

Making sure that he’s okay with one last look, Rythian moves past him, entering his room. Lalna remembers what he’d been doing, and cursing at keeping Zylus waiting, breaks into a jog for the kitchen downstairs.

\--

Lalna answers Ridgedog’s urgent summons in the middle of the night (theirs, not his). The loss of Helios shocked almost everyone; Hyperion covered it up as an engineering malfunction. Lalna guesses that Ridgedog wants him to have a look at the wreckage. Surprisingly, that’s not what Ridgedog dragged him all the way over.

Ridgedog floats a few inches off the floor, hands tucked behind their back. When Lalna’s done digistructing from the Fast Travel, Ridgedog lands and greets him with the usual aplomb. 

“Good evening, Lalna!”

“Evening,” Lalna says, yawning after. He wants to know how they’re floating, but refuses to get into another conversation about Ridgedog’s secret projects. The less he knows, the better. “Is this about Helios crashing on Pandora?”

“Yes, and no.” Ridgedog makes a dour face. “I managed to save what I could, but what a loss!” They shrug. “Not like I had many things of much value on it, mind.”

Lalna’s mind slams on the buzzer. “Nano’s arm!”

“I have it, don’t worry.” Ridgedog leads him down a corridor. The corridor is low lit by neon lights, crafted out of a dull blue metal. 

There’s no point in trying to ask where they are; Ridgedog will brush it off, like they did with all of the curious asks Lalna poses to them. Lalna almost walks into them when they stop in front of a door. Ridgedog passes through three different scans, one of which employs the port in the side of their head. The turrets in the ceiling retract when they both enter. 

In the center of the room floats Nanosounds severed left arm, suspended in cryogenic fluid. It’s still in the original canister Lalna stuffed it into. Wires feed it nutrients, and faux blood; finding her exact blood type didn’t need the services of Pyrionflax’s caliber, not when Lalna could snoop through Lalnable’s cache of medical files on  _ The Blackrock’s _ crew. That’d been the only thing Ridgedog had asked to know about Nanosounds. The rest is within their ability to find out.

“Sirens don’t need Siren blood to keep their limbs alive,” Ridgedog muses, seeing Lalna stare at the arm and the blue tattoos whirling and looping around the skin.

“Can we reattach it?”

“There’s been some wear and tear, and mild necrosis, and I’d worry about infection and lack of sensation, even if the operation did succeed,” Ridgedog recites without hesitation. Lalna’s face must have had some sort of dismayed expression on it, because they add, “I’m doing my best to replicate the arm, including its capabilities, but I have to start from scratch, ever since my lab on Helios was destroyed by a former employee.”

Even if Lalna hadn’t contributed to the project, he clenches his metal fist, gritting his teeth. He’d hoped that they’d return Nanosounds’ arm in good time; this is going to set them both back by months. 

“I hope they died in the crash.” He usually doesn’t like wishing death on anyone, but this one’s personal.

“I would hope so, but I haven’t had time to personally investigate, what with people inquiring about my involvement, and who’s fault it is. That’s been keeping me so busy, I’m afraid.” Ridgedog stares off into the distance, past the floating arm.

“Are you in trouble?”

“Hardly!” Ridgedog laughs. “I know too much about Hyperion, and Pandora’s operations. They need me, for a little while longer. So I’m not in  _ too _ much danger.”

“If you end up leaving Hyperion, will you come to  _ The Blackrock?” _

“I’m not sure.” Ridgedog peers at him, raising an eyebrow. “Are you inviting me to join your crew?”

“I mean, you’ve sponsored us so far, and if you lose your place in Hyperion, and don’t have anywhere else to go, then we do have some spare rooms.” Lalna bites his lip. It’s not technically his place to offer, but over the last year or so, Ridgedog’s proven to be a valuable ally. And they’ve definitely turned over a new leaf (or so they claim). “One more wanted fugitive isn’t going to affect us.”

“That’s very kind of you.” Ridgedog smiles, a little sadly. “I’d love to, but as it stands, I am needed by Hyperion.”

“I’ll tell Nanosounds to leave a place for you, just in case.”

“Thank you, Lalna.” Ridgedog moves towards the arm. “Perhaps you can do something about the arm, using my own notes. I have to be elsewhere, but you have free run of this lab and its attached facilities. ECHO me if you need help.” They teleport away, causing Lalna to recoil in surprise.

\--

“Don’t take that yeetitude with me, mister,” Arsenal scolds, wagging a finger. His intended target delivers a happy burf and wags their rocky tail against the floor. Sighing, Arsenal gives up. With a grunt of effort, he hooks his pinky on his crumpled jacket, dragging it out from underneath the bed. Arden whines, nosing his elbow in remorse for stealing it back after attempting to hoard it for a nest. “Don’t yeet my stuff under my bed! Itchy teeth isn’t an excuse to misbehave!”

Nearby, Dick continues nosing through the contents of his open bag in the hopes of finding a treat. Head deep, Dick doesn’t notice Arsenal picking up Arden to check their mouth. He pries the kraggon’s mouth open to find his device cleverly wedged sideways. Fortunately, kraggons can’t choke on foreign objects. He yanks it out, shaking it clean.

“There’s my device, you naughty boy!” Arden slips free of his grip, slinking back under the bed in a huff. Dick extracts their head from his bag to watch. “Did you eat my paperwork?” Dick shakes their head so vigorously that their tongue lolls out one side of their mouth. Pocketing his device, Arsenal leans on the wall by his bed. “You’re both very good boys and I love you to death, but you gotta stop eating all my stuff.” Boner did that too, but he swears Boner didn’t eat so damn much compared to these two troublemakers. Arden and Dick glance at each other, almost grinning at the ‘compliment.’

An energetic rapping series of knocks interrupts his lecturing. Arsenal grabs both his crutches, hauling himself up in an awkward hobble to the door. Arden and Dick dart past him, rearing up to enthusiastically paw at the door’s metal surface. He opens it. Parvis beams at him.

“Hello! Who’s a good kraggon? You are!” Arden and Dick lose their collective minds at the undeserved praise, claws clacking on the tiles as they try to hog their share of pats.

Arsenal sidles past while the two are distracted. “Alright, I’ll be back in about three hours. Behave, you two.” He pauses, swiveling to glance over one shoulder. He doubts his kraggons heard him, deep in pat heaven. “You sure you can handle both my lil boners?”

“I can handle anything!” Parvis boasts. At that second, Arden’s mouth clamps around the loose, dangly leather bit that’s Parvis’ belt, tugging it downwards. Yelping, Parvis is yanked to the floor and is thoroughly licked. “I’m fine! Down! Let me up!”

Chuckling, Arsenal makes his way to the medical bay. It’s not that different to when he’d had both legs. Whistling, he hobbles onward. He passes friendly faces, greeting them with an acknowledging nod. They judge from his business-like hobbling that he has places to be, and no time for idle chit chat.

He arrives at the medical bay in good time (breaking his original record by a few seconds). Spotting him from the other side of the clear glass, Hollie gets the door for him (bless her). 

“Arsenal! How are you?”

“I’m fine, thank you!” Arsenal bobs backwards and forwards on his crutches. “I don’t mean to be rude and skip the pleasantries, but can you kindly tell me where Lalnable is?”

“He’s in Bay One,” Hollie tells him. “He’s not with anybody right now.” One of her eyebrows rises. “You sure picked a good day to drop by for your check-up.”

“Better late than never,” Arsenal quips. He winks at her, taking himself to Bay One. Hollie shakes her head, grinning to herself.

Lalnable left the door open. Arsenal guesses that it’s been an accident free day, judging by how many lines there are on Lalnable’s forehead.

“Doctorble!” Arsenal delivers a snappy salute without pausing. 

Lalnable doesn’t jump, but an eyebrow visibly twitches. Otherwise, he consults his trusty clipboard. No doubt that he’s accessing Arsenal’s medical file, which was hastily filled out post leg removal while Arsenal was soaring through the clouds in a record breaking medically induced high. Arsenal’s pretty sure he put down ‘do not remove my two rock babies from my room or I’ll have an aneurysm’, which was shockingly accepted.

“You’re well overdue for an appointment.” The dryness in Lalnable’s voice could salt jerky overnight.

“As Hollie pointed out.” Arsenal sticks his head in, one crutch poised over the threshold. “Can I come in?”

“Of course. Please take a seat.” Lalnable seals the room once Arsenal is comfortably settled on the bench. Arsenal imagines the light over the door flickering red. He parks his crutches, swinging his only leg over the edge.

His last appointment was pre-launch, making sure that he’s ready for space. Lalnable hadn’t taken his time; if he had, he’d have noticed that Arsenal slipped in several requests for extra heavy painkillers. Each had been approved and dispensed at the right time as  _ The Blackrock _ drifted through space. The problem with that plan was that Arsenal hadn’t counted on his old pain teaming up with the new pain, and his supply of painkillers have run their course.

Wheedling painkillers out of Hollie is going to get back to Minty, and she’s likely to drag his ass to the medical bay once she finds out. 

There’s also abusing his role as supply officer. Before, he could pinch rations and supplies as he needed to his heart’s content. Now that he has to play his role seriously, all it’ll do is leave a bad taste in his mouth and set him up for future trouble. Despite his pride as a constant shitstirrer, Arsenal doesn’t fancy a disciplinary appointment with, take a guess, Minty.

Lalnable performs the mandatory tests. Arsenal cooperates, counting down to the inevitable question. 

Twenty minutes in, Lalnable taps his medical record. “You’re out of painkillers?”

”You bet I am!” Arsenal waggles both eyebrows at him.

“Is that why you’ve ignored my reminders until now?” Ouch, talk about salty.

“I’m a busy guy.” Fighting a guilty wince, Arsenal shrugs his jacket back on. “I’m basically pulling double duty as captain and supply officer until we get some more of the crew trained to take my shifts.”

“I can always prescribe mandatory rest,” Lalnable points out. “They can’t argue with that.”

“You could, and I’d drag a cot all the way up to the bridge and ‘rest’ there,” Arsenal responds.

“Why are you so eager to be of help to the others?” Lalnable sets down his clipboard. “Popping painkillers all the time isn’t a suitable long-term strategy. You’re on the verge of developing an addiction.”

“I can’t let my leg stop me from doing what I gotta do.” Arsenal’s fingers find the folded up part of his pants. He drags it up, exposing the stump of his knee. Lalnable’s attempts to clean up the butchered hack job left him with a laughable excuse of a leg.

Moving to an old captain’s room means he doesn’t have to expose it in the downstairs showers, but it didn’t exactly stop Arsenal from missing the real thing whenever his pants came off.

Lalnable sighs. “I can’t prescribe you any more painkillers until you’ve been evaluated further.”

“Yeah, and I know that!” Arsenal claps his hands together, leaning forward. He grins. It earns a suspicious frown from Lalnable. “And that’s why I’m interested in doing what you proposed back on Pandora.”

“Ah, a prosthetic leg.” Lalnable huffs, a smile twitching the edge of his mouth upwards. “I was wondering if you’d forgotten or needed more time.”

“I never forget,” Arsenal says. “I also want to finish my transition, but that can wait. Gotta walk the walk first before I can talk the talk, you know?”

Lalnable checks the stump. “It’s healed up well. Cutting into it and merging the synthetic nerves shouldn't present too many difficulties, in theory.”

“Great! When do we start?”

“Now. I’ve just made an appointment with the person who’ll build your prosthetic.”

“I thought we could just buy those things, slice my leg open, plug them in and bam, we’re done?”

“We could, but a prosthetic made by someone who I have in mind will fare you much better, and there’ll be less complications down the line.” Lalnable smiles. “Or your money back, I suppose.”

“Who’s the technician?” Arsenal thinks of Berym and Hollie, but neither have the required expertise.

“He shouldn’t be too long. I’ve sent you a rough timeline of what will happen.”

“You sure know your stuff.” Arsenal skims the timeline. He notes several periods of ‘mandatory rest’ prescribed on his schedule, pending joint approval by the other captains.

“You’re not the first person who needs a prosthetic on board this frigate. I’ll be back after you’re done.” Lalnable leaves him be, stepping outside. 

Arsenal finishes reading his future, marking it for bedtime reading and waits. There’s not a lot to stare at, in the room. He has his fill of entertainment by memorizing all the gross facts about cancer, and what to do about washing hands after peeing.

True to Lalnable’s word, he’s not left waiting for long. Arsenal’s clued in by the raised voices outside. He tilts his head, trying to eavesdrop. No chance, the metal’s too thick. Sighing, he stares up at the ceiling, bored, until Lalna hurries in. 

Lalna tugs on his lab coat, all worried smiles. “Hi, sorry to keep you waiting, I had to eat first! Man, Nilesy’s pancakes are galaxy grade–” He drops the chatter, staring open-mouthed at Arsenal. Arsenal lets his expression turn stony. 

He should have fucking known it’d be Lalna.

Stuffing Lalna into that bin had been great and all, but it’s done little to dent his dislike of him. Rythian might have forgiven him, but Arsenal’s not exactly the same type. He still daydreams of leaving Lalna behind on Pandora. 

He also hadn’t been that stupid as to propose that during the meetings, even if Teep (and probably Daltos) would have agreed. Lalna doesn’t deserve to set foot on  _ The Blackrock, _ the very ship that he’d nearly doomed. He’s also can’t fuck with Lalna’s shipments of goods, no matter how tempting it is to mark one box of snacks as ‘unshipped’ and secretly pass it off as one of his own. 

Stuffing Lalna into that bin had been one of the only means of dealing with him in person, short of putting a bullet into his head. _The_ _Blackrock’s_ policy on weapons is lax, but that’s largely due to everyone acknowledging that there are eyes everywhere, always watching, and any incident of a weapon firing won’t go unnoticed by Vox or patrols.

Lalna puts on a smile that’s too sunny to be real. On his leg, his hand twitches, rising up and away. Arsenal remembers jabbing the cigarette into Lalna’s thigh, relishing it as much as he could. 

“Hi Arsenal! I’ll be helping you–“ He begins.

“I change my mind, I don’t want a prosthetic,” Arsenal coolly interrupts. He hops off the bench, snatching his crutches. It’s hard to rush when he’s down a leg. He suppresses the urge to slam an end down onto Lalna’s boot as he passes.

“But–“ Lalna helplessly spins on the spot to watch him leave.

Lalnable is standing at the reception desk. He blinks at Arsenal emerging from the room. “That was awfully quick.”

“Not according to my sexcapades.” Arsenal winks, but drops the suggestive posturing. “But yeah, uh, I don’t want a prosthetic.” He jerks his head at Lalna, who’s peering with wide eyes at him from the doorway. “Not from him, at any rate.”

“Lalna is one of the most competent technicians on  _ The Blackrock. _ If you’re worried about his qualifications–“

“Look, doc, I don’t care if he went to medical school or not, I don’t want anything to do with him.” Arsenal shifts so that his full weight is on one crutch, partially so that he can keep Lalna in his peripheral vision but mostly so that he’s not looking so tense. Wherever Lalna goes, that ridiculous Loader of his isn’t far behind. Arsenal’s heard all the stories.

Unfazed, Lalnable glances from him to Lalna, and back again. “I’m afraid you don’t have any choice.”

“What do you mean, no choice?” Arsenal eyes him, standing up straighter. It takes a surprising amount of effort not to insert a twang in his voice. “Aren’t you familiar with that shit too?” Or an ‘ain’t’, now that he’s past being a bandit and moved onto bigger, greater things, like trying to accomplish what the past previously denied him.

Lalnable delivers a sardonic, yet sympathetic smile. “I may be, but I’m not as adept at putting prosthetics together. That’s entirely Lalna’s field.” Lalna isn’t as adept as controlling his face to hide his surprise at the compliment.

Arsenal hops forward, leaning right into Lalnable’s face, leering like he’s got a junior bandit caught in his sights for pinching from the backup supplies again. “Listen, I got some  _ real  _ bad blood with Lalna. You can check with him if you like.”

“Lalna?” Lalnable turns his head. Lalna bobs his head in a terrified nod. “Nonetheless, are you still happy to work on a prosthetic for him?” 

“Yep!” Lalna gives a second nod, just as rapid and nervous as the first. His metal hand won’t stop clenching, the plates undulating like a sleeping animal’s chest.

Arsenal lets a frustrated growl dissolve in the back of his mouth, feeling it leave between his teeth as an empty rush of air. “Lalnable, I’ll take you over him, any day–“

“He’s also the only technician available as well. You can choose to delay until we’re docked to find an outside technician, or presently proceed.” Lalnable looks up, right into Arsenal’s leering face. He’s dead serious about it; there’s no way that he’d be fucking around about with a matter like this.

Stepping back, Arsenal jabs a crutch into the floor, grinding the rubber end into a clean tile. He imagines that a fly’s trapped underneath, a little fly wearing Lalna’s face. He swivels, turning back in the direction of the clinic room so that he doesn’t have to see the smug smile Lalnable flashes at his twin. 

Lalna’s face whitens; he almost trips over his own two feet to let Arsenal pass him. He hurries into the room, his boots squeaking.

“Let’s get this over with,” Arsenal snaps at him, returning to the bench. He dumps his crutches, glaring at Lalna. “I ain’t got all day!”

“Sure!” Lalna closes the door. He fishes out a number of blueprints from his inventory, each enclosed in a slim holographic pad. He starts stacking them on the bench. “I made a quiz which you can take, but you can also look at the blueprints and decide–“

“Shut the fuck up and give it here,” Arsenal says, in the soft, dangerous voice Daltos uses to get Goliaths to obey him. The dark part of him delights in seeing the way Lalna freezes before meekly handing over the pad and quickly withdrawing his hand.

Arsenal completes the quiz in ten minutes. He has to grudgingly hand it to Lalna. The quiz is simple, balancing design guided by an intuitive meld of research and minimal infodumping. He slides it back across towards Lalna. Lalna takes it like it’s got an explosive strapped to it.

Lalna’s fear is forgotten when he checks the result. He brightens. “You want that series? It, um, never mind.” He swallows whatever he’d been about say upon catching sight of Arsenal’s expression.

“Hell yeah I want that series,” Arsenal drawls, chewing his words like the stubborn remains of rakk jerky. He cocks an eyebrow. “You got something more to say about my choice?”

“No, no, I think it’s a good choice!” Lalna says. His every word is breathy, like he’s forgetting to breathe between his words. He separates a series of pads.

“What were you about to say?” Arsenal’s gaze never peels from Lalna’s form. Lalna’s trying his best to hide his trembling. He’d succeed too, if it weren’t for the way his fingers itch at the tips, wanting the reassuring weight of a gun. No guns in medical bay still stands, so he’s forced to go without. “Cat got your tongue?”

Lalna shakes his head. “I got nothing.” He turns to a console, keying in the information he’d just received. His head stays turned slightly in Arsenal’s direction.

Aware that he’s watching, Arsenal extends a hand. He delivers a gentle push to the nearest stack of pads. He and Lalna watch as the tower sways before toppling. Blueprints clatter across the floor, sliding everywhere. 

Red in the face, Lalna abandons his data entry, stooping to gather them all up, one by one. Arsenal moves to help, levering himself off the bench.

“I’ll pick them up! You stay where you are,” Lalna pants, his back hunched. “It was an accident, so no worries.” He fakes a laugh that dies a few seconds later, drifting back to the console with obvious misery.

Satisfied, Arsenal remains where he is. It’s a bloody waste of his time to do that, but he’s concluded that he can make Lalna suffer this way, no permanent harm done, but with all the bells and whistles of a regular torment included.

Lalna sends him a request for their next meeting. Arsenal flicks through the calendar provided and selects a date where there’s only one slot left for Lalna. He can almost hear the mental groan Lalna makes when he double-checks it as he hobbles out, grinning like a satisfied fiend.

\--

Once the next appointment rolls around, Arsenal demonstrates just how fashionably late he can be without really pushing Lalnable’s intolerance for tardiness. Lalna won’t dob on him, like the spineless cretin he is.

Arsenal pauses in front of the examination room. He’d waited, loitering out of sight until Lalna’s entered. Arsenal takes a deep breath and sweeps in, hollering, “HEY, I’M SORRY I’M LATE, ONLY I’M ACTUALLY NOT, HOW ARE YOU TODAY?”

He’s met by Lalna cowering, his metal arm poised to fire a punch. Flame spurts from the elbow port. Hot air distorts the faraway screen of an eye evaluation chart. Arsenal eases off the step he’d been about to take, turning it into a leaning motion that stays beyond its range.

“Don’t scare me like that!” Lalna releases a shaky exhale and laugh, all in one. His arm contracts, boosters sliding back into hiding. “Shit, my lab coat!” He pats at a lingering flame on his elbow, smothering it. 

If Arsenal listens carefully, he can hear a shield at work. The distinctive whine kicking in is barely audible. It makes sense; Lalna’s not as comfortable around him as he appears.

Let’s keep that way, alright?

\--

Arsenal purses his lips, squinting at the handheld scanner bobbing in the air by his right leg. The cyan beam runs its course down the naked form of his leg. It traces over every last brown speckle, invisible fingers cataloguing each like a precious treasure. 

He loathes it, loathes the caring way Lalna handles it like he’s a patient who hadn’t callously pricked a cigarette to his thigh in the name of empty vengeance. The idea is incomprehensible to Arsenal, like taking a Tediore gun and forgetting that tossing a partially loaded one had a kickback strong enough to knock an unprepared bandit off their boots for a few good (and admittedly, entertaining) minutes.

Bandits weren’t very good at letting go of grudges. He still doesn’t know how people do it, if at all. Two weeks before being forced to drop by for another appointment with Lalna, Arsenal dragged Minty to the recreation lounge.

The recreation lounge used to be the officer’s lounge. After the mutiny, it became the ‘fun room’, because bandits couldn’t say ‘lounge’ without making fun of each other for using such a fancy word. Being located on his room level, he quickly became  _ very _ familiar with every inch, nook and cranny of said room. 

He also refused to let Nanosounds throw out the saggy, lopsided couch with his name spray painted on the back. Benji and Saberial helped him sneak it back in when he’d found it hidden on the back of the outbound dump truck. As a compromise, he let Nanosounds wring it through a dedicated cleaning course. Twice, after that one time they found a guy’s finger jammed in one seam. She’d also replaced the upholstery with something a bit more fetching.

Arsenal doesn’t get much mileage out of the couch these days, favouring his bed. The couch is seeing quite a bit of action from other people, mostly Minty. She’d missed it too.

Minty brought a few bottles of fruit juice, a gift from Zoeya for helping her with a moon ecology project. Arsenal sniffed the sweet smelling stuff before risking a sip. Minty popped hers open and chugged half of it, no problem. Arsenal explained to her his little problem, and noted that he wanted her to listen as a friend, not as the HR person.

“Did I ever tell you about how I lost my arm?” Minty put down her bottle, watching him from under the rim of her cowboy hat.

“You lost it to ice shugguraths.” Arsenal begged the story out of Hollie. Minty wouldn’t tell him then.

“That I did, but did I tell you about what happened after?” Minty didn’t ask how he knew. “No?” She took another pull of her juice. “Alright, Teep picked my sorry ass up off the ground, plunked me, frozen arm and all onto their Stingray and legged it back to Concordia.”

“Teep did?” Post Boner delivery, Arsenal hired Teep loads of times, mostly to ask them to off people. Together, Arsenal had walked Teep through the frigate, pointing out people for Teep to punch; they’d done so when he’d expected them to decline taking on such a ridiculous job. After that one random nighttime visit, he hadn’t run into them again, not until all the stuff with the Vault exploded.

“Yep,” Minty confirmed, her tone as mild as her expression. She swirled the juice in its bottle, watching the pulp spin in a cloudy whirlpool. “Teep saw the whole thing go down and confessed that if they’d stepped in sooner, I wouldn’t have lost my arm.”

If he was still seeing Minty, he’d be jumping to his feet and asked if she wanted him to kick Teep’s ass (or try). Since he wasn’t, he’d reeled back his surprise and flash of anger. Arsenal just watches her for a few seconds.

“I know Pyrion bought my arm but Teep asked them to, which kind of makes up for it a lil.” Minty drummed her leg, nodding to herself. “Didn’t give me any trouble after that, not even a peep. I wanted them to, just so I could throw their ass into jail.”

“What made you not want to do that?”

“Mostly? Hollie would have been upset.” Minty smiled. Arsenal’s heart doesn’t betray him. “That’s about it, really.” She patted his face, with the hand not holding the bottle, the hand that’s not capable of crushing his knee in one squeeze. “Don’t look so disappointed. You asked for my reason, and I gave it to you.”

“Sorry, I just was expecting something a lot more…” Arsenal trailed off.

“Substantial? Complex? Compelling? I’m a simple woman. You won’t catch me marching off on some skagbrained quest to avenge a limb, or anybody. Not that easily, that is.” Minty fixed him with a hardened squint. “If you mention Concordia as proof otherwise, I’m gonna piss on your desk.”

“Piss on, Minty, piss on.” Arsenal’s joke didn’t earn a chuckle or a jab to the arm.

“Ask your daddy how he’s coming along.” Minty turned on the couch, gesturing for Daltos to come over. Daltos gingerly made his way over from the door, flopping down between the both of them. Minty offered him a bottle. He took one and decapped it, drinking it. 

“Thanks,” Daltos muttered.

“Arsenal’s looking for some wisdom in how not to gouge Lalna’s eyes out with a screwdriver.”

“If he is, I’d tell him to wear gloves, use the screwdriver with the flat head for maximum torque, also tie Lalna down first, and use the storeroom by the engines if he’s worried about all the screaming, plus put down some newspaper first.” Daltos rewarded himself with another sip. “This is nice stuff.” 

Behind their couch at another table, Xephos and Pyrionflax gathered their things and left, looking worriedly over their shoulders at the three.

“Nobody’s getting their eyes gouged out without filling in all the right forms, and they gotta be signed by me and Lalnable, or the med team,” Minty patiently emphasized.

“Why the med team?” Arsenal asked.

“Anything requiring sticking things into a human body in the name of ‘help’ needs clearance. Saves the headache of paperwork, and passing the blame around like a relay stick.”

“Makes sense.”

“Anyway, if you’re asking how I’m not attacking Lalna, it’s easy: he’s currently useful.” Daltos shrugged, like it’s obvious. It’s not.

Arsenal stared at him. “You’re not tormenting him because he’s  _ useful?” _

“Somebody who’s jittery all the time isn’t useful to this frigate.” Daltos looks right at him.

“There’s gotta be more to it than that.” Arsenal jostled Daltos’ arm. “Come on, spill the beans, all of them!”

“I don’t have any more beans to spill!”

“Is it Zylus? Did he ask too?” Minty teased.

“No,” Daltos firmly said. “Basically, I’m putting practicality first over my personal feelings.”

“Alright.” Answers gotten, Arsenal excused himself and hobbled off to his shift on the bridge. 

He’d toyed with the idea of asking Ravs, but Ravs couldn’t really hate someone, not someone who saved Rythian and brought him back alive, even after backstabbing the poor guy. 

Arsenal wished he had that ability too.

Back to the present. Arsenal jiggles his leg, upsetting the beam’s journey down his limb. Nobody’s told him that it’s fine to keep hating, or to stuff his loathing down to the bottom of a trash can like leftovers that he doesn’t want Boner to discover. Not even if he knows that it’s a waste of time and effort.

Lalna’s face doesn’t even twitch when the beam fades. The tool’s screen flashes ‘scan interrupted, please retry!’ in unmissable letters. He looks up at Arsenal, wide-eyed and imploring, a cheerful grin plastered on his face.

“Sorry, guess that didn’t take! Can we try again?” His use of ‘we’ makes Arsenal want to throw up. He’s behaving like he and Arsenal are a  _ team. _ They couldn’t be less of a team, to him.

“Nah, I’m pooped.” Arsenal feigns massaging his stump of a knee. “Knee’s gone numb, sorry.”

Lalna resembles Lalnable, except when Lalna frowns, it looks like he needs to take an emergency shit. Lalnable’s turned frowning into an art form used for intimidating an entire room of rowdy patients into cooperating.

Arsenal watches as Lalna despawns the tool and crosses the room to a bunch of cabinets. He unlocks one, pulling out a basic packet of capsules. Lalna hands it to him. Arsenal stares at it, even as he nervously glances at the closed door. Lalnable doesn’t interrupt these appointments unless he’s needed.

“Lalnable told me not to give you any unless it’s super bad, but uh, if he asks, I didn’t give you this.” Lalna grins. It still has a trace of fear behind it, but underneath it, lies genuine compassion.

The amount of times Arsenal’s ground out a command for Dick and Arden to skitter off down the hallway and pester someone to get him hot patches for his leg is sitting comfortably between ‘I owe almost everyone on this ship a drink’ and ‘random I.O.U.’s, to be cashed whenever, wherever’ would fill up the last few pages of Ravs’ little black book in a blink.

Arsenal backhands the packet out of Lalna’s hand. The packet hits the tiles with a sad thwap, laying still. Lalna stares blankly at his empty hand, and automatically steps back when Arsenal hefts himself up.

“I don’t want your fucking charity, you conniving, selfish, prick.” Arsenal departs the room without a second glance. 

He regrets his bold decision three hours later once he’s curled up in his bed, sweating bullets and running through every curse word he knows. 

Dick and Arden worriedly nose the limp hand hanging over the side of the bed, wondering why he’s not procrastinating at his desk, or taking them for walkies, or why he’s not up and being himself. One kraggon thoughtfully brings him a hot patch, leaving it by his elbow.

“Thanks, but that’s not gonna help much,” He mumbles to Dick. Dick responds by nudging the patch closer to him, expecting him to peel it apart and let them take the packaging to the trash can.

He has less bridge shifts than Zylus and Daltos; he argued against it at first, but then understood the necessity as the dreaded phantom pain crept up on him and refused to leave. Everybody let him be the supply officer as a compromise, perhaps understanding that he needed it, to not feel less as a person for failing to overcome a never-ending pain that made Arado’s torture a walk in the park.

Arsenal avoids bonesaws and electricity surges, even the ones in movies. He gets bouts of debilitating panic, nausea and vertigo that abate only when the triggers are gone or passed. Daltos closes his eyes and grits his teeth whenever someone starts whistling a few bars of a popular bandit tune. Whistling that particular refrain is banned not by official rules but by mutual agreement of all the crew. It  _ sucks. _

On the pain scale, today’s pain registers as an eight. He’s already dipped a toe in ten once just to see what it was like, shuddered, and promptly bounced the pain back down to a four with the help of his pills. Ten is ‘nope’ territory. He’d rather eat a stalker embryo raw. Ten is torture he’d prefer not to relive.

As one, Arden and Dick’s heads whip around to stare at the door. The two cease all whining, falling silent. Dick stays by him, growling softly. Claws tacking on the scratched tiles, Arden creeps towards the door, stalking whatever presence is outside. 

Arsenal breathes through his nose as best as he can. All the pride at how protective his two kraggons are doesn’t dull the way his leg demands to feel all the flesh that it was once connected to.

Heaving the pain aside, Arsenal whispers to the omnipresent entity within  _ The Blackrock’s _ walls, “Vox, please open the door.” 

Vox obliges without hesitation. The door whooshes aside to a well-lit hallway.

Arsenal turns his head to spot Arden lunge at the open doorway. Arden lands in the hallway, tail lashing and mouth open to spit fire. Their head ducks briefly, then up, sniffing the air. Not wanting anybody to be nosy and cause a fuss, Arsenal whistles a few notes of his ‘return’ command.

Arden withdraws into his room. Vox closes the door once Arden’s tail is clear. Dick bumps snouts with Arden. Arsenal doesn’t realise that Arden’s holding an item in their mouth, not until cold, hard plastic meet his fingertips.

He drops it, surprised. Dick helpfully retrieves it, lifting it up to his hand. Arsenal holds it up to his face. The lamp by his bed offers him enough light to identify the mysterious object.

It’s painkillers.

Emotion demands him to throw them at the wall. Logic drives him sit up, tear a corner open, jiggle a capsule free and swallow it with a mouthful of cold water. Dick carts his canteen away by the strap. Arden curls up beneath his hand, softly whining.

“You’re helping me by being here,” Arsenal soothes his troubled kraggons. Dick joins Arden, snuggling up against their side. The painkillers are kicking in already, chasing off the pain, driving it back into number three’s range of ‘you’re here, but not running amok like seven is.’

He barely has any energy to wonder who left those in front of his door.

\--

“I change my mind, I don’t want this model,” Arsenal tells Lalna the next time they meet. Before that, he randomly canceled his appointments at the last minute, already bored of all the torment. Lalna grits his teeth and hunts through his records for Arsenal’s second choice of prosthetics. 

Just to go the extra mile of dickery, Arsenal waits until he’s built that second one, then swaps it back to the first. Grinning, he watches Lalna’s face fall at all his hard work wasted. Lalna starts to shake. His mouth wobbles. Tears prick the corner of his eyes, threatening to spill any second.

“Fuck, stop it!” Lalna hurls the clipboard at the floor. It bounces once, settling by the door. He breathes through his nose, red in the face, looking like he’s regretting yelling at him.

“Stop what?” Arsenal raises an innocent eyebrow at Lalna’s breakdown. He’d feel guiltier, except, he doesn’t.

“Making my life hell!” Lalna slaps both hands to his head, clumps of his blonde hair clenched in both hands, glaring at him as hot tears run tracks down his cheeks.

“Am I  _ really _ making your life hell?” Arsenal muses that he should be given an acting award for faking his surprise.

“Yes!” Lalna shouts. It makes a wall screen rattle.

“Hmm, I wonder why,” Arsenal says, his voice a deliberate, soft whisper.

Lalna sinks into himself, hunching where he stands. He ruffles his own hair, eyes snapping shut. “I know what I did, but you don’t have to keep making my life a living hell!” He mutters a bunch of words that are out of Arsenal’s hearing range.

“What was that?” Arsenal flicks an invisible dust mote off his pants. He’s still relishing the moment Lalna broke, unaware that Lalna’s been concocting plans to stop him. 

Lalna stands up tall, looks him in the eyes, and blurts, “I’ll tell Lomadia!”

Now that’s a threat he thought he’d never hear from this coward. Arsenal laughs. “You wouldn’t.” A part of him squirms at how Lomadia would react to how he’s behaving. After all this time of missing her, he’s not pleased at losing their friendship again if Lalna dobs him in. “You don’t have the balls.”

Chewing his bottom lip, Lalna mumbles, “I’m sorry, but hating me isn’t going to bring back your leg.”

Faced with enduring the lull of uncomfortable silence that envelops the room and accepting the truth, Arsenal launches himself off the bench. Lalna spasms in alarm, split between rolling out of the way or meeting him. Arsenal’s hand fists in his shirt, holding him upright. He’s so close to Lalna that he can practically smell his fear.

“You listen here, you little shit. You think a sad little ‘sorry’ is gonna cut it? You did more than inspire a bunch of dickheads to saw off my busted leg and nearly kill me.

_ You _ also took away Daltos’ eye, killed one of our friends who listened to that fuckface Sjin’s lies, helped instigate a hell of a schism that murdered a hella lot of bandits on both sides who didn’t deserve it, gave my surviving buds PTSD, destroyed Minty’s Boner, and that ain’t even half the shit  _ you _ wrecked when  _ you _ chose to open  _ your _ big mouth.

I’ve dreamed so many times of going back to that day and sewing your mouth shut with a nail gun, that it’s practically a wet dream that I could make a neat little snuff flick out of, but I can’t change the past, so maybe picking on you is my own private way of coping, because that’s easier than hating someone who’s far, far away and out of shooting range, and because frankly, if I don’t wanna forgive you, then that’s my deal, but alright, if you want me to stop picking on you, then sure, I’ll stop picking on you.

You finally stood up for yourself even though I hoped you’d stick a scalpel through your own guts and pull it sideways in the mess hall. You’re lucky that part of bandit code is that once you stand up for yourself, you’re entitled to be left alone.

So, given my remaining options, the third choice’s loving you, but I ain’t sure a lot of people are doing that around these parts, so I got my work cut out for me there. So let’s call it a truce, m’kay? You finish putting together my new leg, I won’t bother you again unless I really have to, and you don’t breathe a word of this to Lomadia since I can do a lot worse than what I’ve done in the past. 

Nod for yes, you get it, or shake your head to indicate how much of a bitch you want me to make of you.”

Lalna’s head resembles a bobble headed dashboard toy in the ensuing seconds. Arsenal uncurls his hands, mouth dry and head buzzing with a blankness that he associates with an incoming pain bender. With only a lone leg to stand on and empty air surrounding him on all sides, he has trouble staying balanced. 

Lalna grabs one of his flailing arms.

Arsenal stares at him. Despite still being teary, Lalna’s eyes have a glint of hardened resolve in them. He drops him off at the bench, backing off to the downed clipboard, an aura of hurt following him.

“I know I hurt and killed a lot of people when I backstabbed everyone. I had to ask Pyrion and Xephos for a new ECHO device since mine got filled with so many messages telling me to kill myself, or worse. Hearing it in person’s different to reading it.” Lalna shudders from head to toe. He smiles, albeit miserably. “I deserve it, though.”

“Good to know. Otherwise, I don’t care. I’m not saying sorry for how and why I feel that way towards you.” Arsenal wishes that he had one of Daltos’ smokes to occupy himself with, short of bouncing his leg. “But it’s now out in the open, and I won’t keep making you feel like shit for trying to help me, since I get that you’re trying to still make amends.” He wearily glares at Lalna. “That’s all I got for you, whether you like it or not.”

“You’re trying your best too.” Lalna offers a conciliatory grin.

“Enough with the empathising.” Arsenal rolls his eyes. “I got enough sad sappiness in my life.” He’s starting to get why Daltos got so grumpy at how optimistic Ravs was.

Lalna bobs his head in a nod, wiping his face with the front of his wet shirt. He retrieves the clipboard, squinting at the screen with puffy eyes. “Sorry to go back to the drawing board, but do you want the first or second model?”

Arsenal peeks at his own notes, ignoring Lalna’s surprise that he’s finally taking this so seriously. “Second one. I read somewhere that it’s easier on my joints once I start taking my T.”

“I think I can whip up something for you,” Lalna says, smiling. “Gimme a few weeks.”

“Hey, I’m not going anywhere,” Arsenal dryly says, already inputting his next appointment.

\--

He doesn’t put up a fight as Lalna installs his new prosthetic. In fact, he doesn’t even notice, busily flipping through a ration catalogue as Lalna calibrates the last of the nerves. 

Lalna taps the bench, grabbing his attention. “Hey, uh, I’m done?” Arsenal despawns the art magazine, staring down his new prosthetic as he shuffles upright. He extends a hand. Sucking in a breath, he traces an exploratory finger down the metal surface, along a curved joint that forms the ‘bony knob’ that’s supposed to be his knee.

The mildest tingle dances up along his knee before it hits him that he can  _ feel _ again. He grasps at his knee; real,  _ proper _ sensation seeps up his leg and along his palm, cold and warmth wrapped up in one large package, ready to knock him dead.

“How’s that feel? Too sensitive?” Lalna sticks his head up, twirling the calibration tool in one hand. 

“Hell no! Somebody grab me an ice bucket, I wanna feel my tootsies again!” Arsenal whoops, kicking his leg out and watching his foot. His toes curl, one by one. He uncurls them. Then again. And again, just for the novelty of it.

Lalna lets out an undignified snort. “Hey, if you wanted to, your new leg’s waterproof. Okay, how’s that?” He stabs Arsenal’s big toe with a blunt needle. Arsenal recoils, yanking his leg back.

“Felt that!” And so on, as Lalna checks the other toes. Lalna then strikes his knee with one of those little rubber hammers. His leg kicks out, settling against the bench again. “Boy, you have no idea how much I wanna go to the beach right now and bury my feet in sand, just to feel those grains massage my tenders.” He gasps. “I can wear a proper pair of socks again! And my boots!”

“Don’t get too excited yet, you still got to stand!” Lalna pulls up a bunch of holographic squares set in a straight line. “You think you can make it to the other side of the room?”

“I reckon I could hop my way over!” Arsenal drops off the bench. A part of him tenses up for the inevitable sensation of him faceplanting. His brain shrugs at the unexpected pushback, deciding to process it, no questions asked. He stands, testing the weight of his new leg.

It’s lighter than he thought; it’s not exactly top of the line and built for streamlined athletics but it has a certain pull to it so that he’ll never forget that it’s there. Arsenal spends a few seconds dragging his foot along the floor, testing how sensitive his foot is. Oh yes, he can register the cold tiles, how one’s uneven along one edge, and how smoothly his foot slides over them.

He legitimately hops over every square, touching the wall on the other side and bouncing back. There’s a few hairy moments where he almost trips, forgetting that he has to get used to having two feet again. All his physical therapy sessions and gym’s finally paying off.

Lalna’s collecting all the data, nodding as he twiddles with his handy clipboard. “Readout looks good. I’ll send them to you if you’re interested?”

“Sure!” Arsenal happily agrees, balancing on one leg.

“I think it’s time to debut your new companion,” Lalna says with a smile, despawning the clipboard.

“Oh yeah.” Arsenal pauses, lowering his leg. He tosses a glance at the door as he’s pulling on his boots.

“You ready? Or do you want some more time to adjust– wait for me!” Lalna starts, since Arsenal’s already at the door.

Tugging one boot off (and ignoring the quizzical look Lalna throws his way), Arsenal nudges the door to the lounge open; he can hear people noticing, preparing for his appearance. 

All Arsenal does is stick his new leg through the gap so that it’s the first thing that they all see. “New leg, who dis?”

A pause. Ravs is the first to break, guffawing. “Get in here, or Parvis is gonna eat all your cake!”

“Hey, that’s my cake!” Arsenal shoulders the door open, stepping in.

Parvis doesn’t have any cake, defensively crossing his arms over his chest. “I was just looking at it!”

“I made plenty to share!” Nilesy shouts. “And cookies, to go with them!”

“Here’s the man we were just talking about,” Minty yells. “Look at you, strutting about with your fancy new leg!” 

“Yeah, that’s right, look at it! It’s a real work of art!” Arsenal shoves his pant leg up higher, showing it off. “I love it!” 

He drags Lalna in. “Come on, we can fit one more in!” Lalna looks surprised to be included. He can’t escape since Nilesy descends on him with the famous, irresistible cat cookies.

Arsenal finds Minty, Ravs and Daltos in their own corner. He  _ strides _ to them, letting the light angle off the metal of his leg. Daltos rolls his eyes, but Lomadia, Ravs and Minty clap and laugh.

People have stopped sharing food and drinking, staring at Arsenal like he’s just been shot. “Why’s everyone looking at me like that?”

“You okay?” Daltos closely peers at him.

Tears dribble down Arsenal’s face. He hadn’t felt the first ones fall, too focused on everything else but the wetness creeping forwards from the back of his eyeballs. 

“I, uh, it’s not anything.” He wipes his eyes with a napkin Lomadia hands him. “Seriously, it’s not. I just got a whole lotta feelings happening at once. Carry on people, stuff ain’t gonna eat or drink itself!”

“Look at you, bawling like a baby,” Minty drawls. She’s not being mean, gently teasing him. “I can understand how you feel though, what with not really missing something until you get it back.”

“Too right.” Arsenal laughs, sniffling. “And hey, I ain’t bawling, I’m weeping in joy. I can  _ walk _ again.”

“Can I call you ‘Skippy’ now?” Daltos asks.

“Sure, daddy,” Arsenal says.

“Never mind,” Daltos grumbles.

“Can I please get everyone’s attention?” Arsenal raises both his hands until he has silence. Ravs steers Lalna over. Lalna nervously hangs onto his drink like it’s a lifeline. “I wanna thank the guy who made all this possible, plus a bunch of other folks.” Arsenal swings an arm over Lalna’s shoulders. “This guy, right here. Swell dude, he built this thing from scratch, let me push him around about the colour, the specs, the wiring, all without a single complaint! Can you believe it? He still did it though. If you’re ever in need of a hand, come to this guy.” He grins at Lalna, stage whispering to him. “Guess what, I just sent a present to the office just down the hallway, just for you. It’s at the printer. Better go get it!”

Lalna rushes off. He stares at the single piece of paper that’s spat out, grabbing it. One side’s blank so he flips it over. A word is centered in giant font that almost takes up the whole page.

“‘Bitch,’” Lalna reads out loud, sighing after.

\--

Lalna sees more former bandits than he likes, and is tempted to blame Arsenal for the increasing numbers that drop by Lalnable’s clinic seeking an appointment or passing through for a checkup. 

It’s easy to recognise the ones from Daltos’ gang; they belong to the bridge crew, keeping  _ The Blackrock _ shipshape at all hours, even when the captains are off duty. Most of them flew Buzzards, as evident by their flight gear (helmet optional, mandatory goggles, carabiner belts, plus a holstered pistol on hand for any cabin jackers) and restlessness even when both feet are on the ground. 

Most of them are frigidly polite to Lalna, with the exception of Hawker and Hurricane, who treat Lalna like a younger brother in need of cheering up. And then there’s the quiet, constantly masked one whose name starts with a ‘S’ that Lalna can never remember. They’re always civil in a way that doesn’t make Lalna want to keep a gun on him for self defense. They know his name at least, and don’t shout it at the top of their lungs like the other two does. Or call him ‘Palna’.

The rest are from Parvis’ band, a ragtag bunch used to wild parties, deafening music, bone breaking stunts and hair raising occult research. They run the frigate upkeep, housekeeping, odd jobs, basic maintenance and patrols. They’re always friendly to Lalna, constantly asking if he wants to join them for drinks, games, or a jam session. Lalna likes them, but usually doesn’t accept an invitation unless he’s with Parvis or another crew member, since he doesn’t know what to do with himself in the company of such unrestrained and rambunctious folks.

It’s not that he’s uncomfortable...okay, maybe he is, in more ways than he’d like to admit. He’s worried that some of them still harbor a grudge against him for causing the battle that upended all their lives.

He misses the other Vault Hunters, Nanosounds especially. Will Strife and Rythian are around, but nobody laughs at his dirty jokes and accidentally snorts  _ and _ chases him for laughing harder for it, or steals his food and buys him lunch in return. Or arguing that picking up cards with tentacles counts as an extra hand.

He has yet to give the other three the moonstones from Elpis. They don’t deserve such a pathetic gift from a backstabber like him. Someday, he’ll work up the nerve.

Hollie hosts group therapy sessions for those dealing with grief, anger and sleep issues. She’s extended an invitation to him too, but Lalna always declined, fearing that the bandits would like to use him as target practice for their feeling bullets. Back on Pandora, Ravs reassured Lalna that Daltos and Parvis settled all differences, and none should harbor animosity towards him, but that doesn’t extend beyond bandits, former or not.

After Arsenal accepted his help, former bandits asked Lalna for new prosthetics, to replace limbs that they lost during that battle. He didn’t know that they existed in such numbers on  _ The Blackrock  _ before; they crawled out of the woodwork, appointments slowly filling up Lalna’s timetable.

Lalnable’s pleased by the increased traffic to the clinic, and that Lalna will have less time to tinker and blow up something important. Lalna has mixed feelings about the entire thing, but accepts the appointments hosted in his tiny workshop.

Lalna’s astounded by how many bandits fared with a hand missing almost all their fingers, how a couple of tactiturn snipers shot with only one eye, or front liners hobbling around on a crude leg crafted out of an old boot, a table leg, plunger, a bunch of duct tape and velcro. There’s a clever ingenuity present in each makeshift prosthetic Lalna inspects, or the little tools each bandit swore by. Some were clearly made by dead friends, relatives or family.

All of them watch Lalna like a hawk when he examines them. They’re all thrilled when he asks if they’d like to incorporate a piece of their old prosthetic into their new ones. No prosthetic is ever finished in a single session, and Lalna prides himself on his ability as an engineer and a technician. He wants all his prosthetics to be comfortable, with minimal fuss and functional beyond basic needs.

Hollie advises him to ‘overlook the bandit thing’ as best as he can. 

“It’s a bandit thing. Bandits have a song and dance for everything that they categorize, and if they see you as an enemy, you’re more or less an enemy until you’re not, or they decide otherwise. Just treat them like people.”

Despite their initial wariness, surliness and tough exterior, they all start jabbering away to Lalna after a couple of appointments. The lack of an ‘on guard’ approach definitely helps. He’s on a first name basis with them after ten sessions. The ones missing teeth and tongues chop his name down to ‘Lal’, which is frankly, much better than ‘Palna’, the least flattering nickname.

Refectory visits elicit a chorus of ‘Lal! Get over here and have a cuppa with us!’ or a ration bar being lobbed his way. He’s starting to enjoy the casualness, which is why he’s careless when an unexpected visitor drops by his workshop.

Minty wants a rocket arm like Zoeya’s and his. Lalna refuses. In her hands, the thing would be like a legendary grade rocket launcher pointed at a newborn baby skag.

“Why do you want a rocket arm anyway?” Lalna asks. he can’t refuse basic calibrations, hence why she’s currently sitting on his bench letting him poke around her sensitive insides. He hastily mentally rephrases that so his mouth doesn’t betray him.

“Saw Zoeya punching a frozen poop sample in one hit, and I want it for paperwork,” Minty states like it’s no big deal. It is a big deal.

“What kind of paperwork are you dealing with that needs that much firepower?” Lalna almost drops a screw onto the floor. He catches it in mid-air, staring at her.

“I gotta upgrade this piece of shit and I figure, why not go for a surprise? I could light candles with it too. Ladies always swoon over that.” Minty flexes a couple of fingers. 

Yes, there’s the trademark jittering that denotes that the nerve sensitivity is completely shot through, and that calibrations are useless without further microsurgery. Or take the sensible option, which is to replace the whole prosthetic and adjust sensitivity to fit. The arm’s skinless anyway. Picking at the peeling fake skin is like picking at old scabs or curling flakes of sunburnt skin, gross but cathartic in the end.

“What if I don’t want to give you a rocket arm?” Lalna tests, wondering if being cheeky will incur Minty’s famous pistol-whipping wrath, or a tongue lashing.

“I’ll accept it, and find a black market dealer.” Minty flashes him a winning smile, all teeth and no charm whatsoever. All her teeth are white and pristine, a little crooked but present. This unnerves Lalna, who’s used to seeing a dentist’s poster nightmares flashing at him during these sessions.

“Don’t do that!” Lalna bristles that she’d dare go to a black market dealer.

Second hand limbs (pun not intended) offend Lalna like neglecting Larry Robert. Sure, they might be dirt cheap, but the costs of maintenance start to rack up for an arm without a background or certified tech. That’s like eating food that’s gone through both ends of a skag. Who knows where it’s been, and what it could be hiding?

“That was a joke.” Minty laughs, but not meanly. “I’d never debase this scared temple with an unknown foreign object.” Wink, wink.

Lalna goes red while mentally kicking himself for falling for her blase sense of humour. “I’ll give you an arm, but no rocket. If it breaks, I’ll put you on a priority list for replacements.” It’s a pretty good deal he’s offering her. Just take it already.

“I want an arm  _ with _ a rocket,” Minty insists, crossing her arms over her chest. “That’s the only reason why I came here to see you.”

“If I give you one, everybody else will want one!” Lalna can’t even think of what disaster giving every crew member a rocket arm will entail. He’s already on Arsenal’s naughty list for life.

“Then why’d you give Zoeya one?”

“Because she can be trusted with it.” Lalna turns the tail end of that sentence into a statement, and not a question. Show no weakness to Minty. If there’s a hint of it, she’ll pounce.

“Zoeya uses it for all manner of things, from opening jars, kraggon throwing, spoon bending, poop smacking—“ Minty begins to list off.

“That’s true, but you want to use yours for setting paperwork on fire!” Lalna almost yells. Sure, Zoeya’s doing all sorts of weird things with her new arm, but not anything nefarious.

“Only the illegible paperwork, which is doing Sherlock a big favour,” Minty corrects, grinning like she’s won.

“Can I think about it?” Lalna desperately says.

“It’s now or never, son.”

“Jeez.” Lalna sighs. “Fine, I’ll make you a rocket arm, but you have to promise not to set anything on fire with it, unless you really have to.” He’ll also let Lalanable know if anybody shows up with a rocket arm imprint on their body or face, burns, or broken bones, it’s probably Minty’s fault.

“I swear on my boner’s grave.” Mnity places her hand on her chest and continues to grins at him.

Her appointments go smoothly, and she harasses him no less than twice to see if she can add more gadgets to it, like a grappling hook and a grenade launcher. These suggestions are vetoed, with Hollie’s patient intervention saving him both times. Minty sulks, but doesn’t ask again once Hollie details list of reasons why she doesn’t need those.

She once walks in wearing a jacket emblazoned with the words ‘Rocket Club’ on it and hands him one in his size. “We made jackets,” She explains. 

He has to endure Lalnable asking him about the club, and that he is not to supply anyone else with the rocket arms. Or else Lalnable will have to enforce a system to check every single one of Lalna’s final prosthetics for secret rockets.

Lalna finds that working on the prosthetics occupies his waking mind. He can rest his head on a pillow, slip into unconsciousness and wake without the vivid nightmares hunting him down and crucifying him. 

He sees Rythian in his dreams at least once a week. Usually, Rythian rips his face off. Lalna learns to keep a clean towel by his bed to wipe off the excess sweat, and to sleep in light clothing. Laundry days can’t be skipped.

“Best prosthetics I’ve ever had installed. Miss my poking toe though, but no lag, no snag, not bad! ” One of his regulars, a cook missing a foot, marvels at the device melded to their skin. “You should sell these, I’d bet they’d sell out in no time at all!”

Lalna flushes, and refrains from commenting. He’d never thought about his prosthetics being good enough to market. Competing with Anshin spells a death wish he’d never even dreamed of. He also vaguely remembers Lalnable’s exasperated comment, said in the heat of the moment back on Pandora.

But. It’s better than making weapons, and causing another mining rig incident.

He spends a few nights tossing and turning in bed, looking at the idea from all angles. He’s sleep deprived, and doesn’t question Larry Robert and Junior playing pattycake for two days straight in the corner of his workshop until Rythian arrives, clearly worried about Junior vanishing from his room.

“Rythian!” Lalna rubs his tired eyes, pushing a deceptive smile onto his face.

Their schedules don’t line up, and Rythian keeps to himself these days because of his devotion to Vaults and the hunt for them. It’s also Rythian blocking Teep from outright killing Lalna. If Rythian changes his mind, Lalna might wake up staring into the vacuum of space instead of at those serious, bright blue eyes.

“Lalna, you look tired.” Rythian glances at Junior and Larry Robert, then back to him. “Something wrong?”

Lalna twiddles his thumbs. Rythian patiently waits in the doorway. Ever since the Vault of the Queen collapsed, Rythian’s grown more reserved, though his passion for anything Vault related burned, consuming all his time until Ravs stepped in to dissuade Rythian from old habits.

“People think I should open a company for custom prosthetics, but I’m scared of competing with the bigger fish. I’ve always been a little fish in the ocean.” Lalna laughs, more for the noise than to punctuate his words.

Rythian’s gaze is unnerving. It’s hard not to imagine the purple glare flashing within it, especially if he gets annoyed. He’s probably not even aware of it actually happening.

“You wouldn’t charge people an arm and a leg for it, would you?” Rythian finally says.

“No?” Lalna frowns. “Why would I? Well, the littler parts aren’t cheap, but I mostly use things that people can buy in bulk, or scavenge from other machinery.”

“You’d probably help a lot of people. Look at all the people you’ve helped on  _ The Blackrock _ already.” Rythian’s mouth twists into a faint smile. “And you’re not worrying about killing people.”

Lalna’s eyes widen at this new way of looking at the whole picture. 

Rythian nods to Junior. Junior detaches from the game of pattycake with an acknowledging bob of their head. They follow Rythian out. Larry Robert moves to charge themself, leaving a thoughtful Lalna sitting at the blueprint desk.

  
  


\--

The arm Lalna stares at is blackened, no longer a pale pink with strands of blue curling around it in eye pleasing whorls. Ridgedog takes the photo back, storing it in their inventory in a cloud of fading pixels.

Lalna slumps against his chair, mind reeling through the what, how and why of this news. He’d known that failure would always hover over him, but it’d be staved off by Ridgedog’s backing of the project meant to give Nanosounds back her real arm, but it hadn’t been enough.

“Do you still have the arm?”

“I’m very sorry, but it’s no longer in sustainable condition, and I had to dispose of it before it drew attention.” Ridgedog is too gentle, and it shouldn’t make Lalna’s blood boil but it does. He turns the valve keeping his anger in check, and lets it boil away in a distant corner of his mind.

“Forget about it, at least I tried.” Lalna waits to hear Ridgedog leave so he can grieve about it on his own.

“Perhaps you can help me with something else instead.” Ridgedog moves to peer into Lalna’s face. He doesn’t bother lifting his head off the table.

“What is it?” Lalna breathes out, almost snapping it.

“I need someone to do something about this body, and while Lalnable is willing to help me, I need someone a lot more experienced…and trusted.”

“Do you have any idea what you’re asking, right now?” Lalna almost giggles.

“Did I ask at a bad time?” Ridgedog frowns.

“I need to know what it is first.” Lalna sits up, his full, undivided attention solely focused on the multitudes of answers Ridgedog could deliver.

“I’ll tell you after you accept.”

“It’s not sexual, is it?” Lalna mentally gags at the thought. With Ridgedog, one never knows. As for why Ridgedog keeps pestering him, well, that’s just them being eccentric and annoying rather than enjoying Lalna’s company.

“No! Never! I respect you as a person, and would never stoop to humiliating you like that!” Ridgedog jazz hands at him. “It’s more to do with this body.”

“Your body?” Lalna eyes where Ridgedog is pointing directly at their coat. “That body, which is probably full of illegal modifications? No way.” There’s no way he’ll ever forget all the devices in their mining rig office. They must still have moved all of it elsewhere before the mining rig was disassembled.

Ridgedog is in his face, all malicious glee. “If you don’t help me with my body, I’ll tell Nanosounds you tried to steal her detached arm,” They whisper before moving back out of punching range.

That would be a terribad (like terrible and bad mashed together, which Parvis uses for a boo boo that’s beyond his medical expertise) idea. 

Nanosounds is back to trusting him once he built her new arm and is keeping tabs on it. Will Strife is wary of him, despite their shared interest in machines and tech. Rythian would probably ask Teep or Vox to vent him on the spot. Everyone else would lynch him.

“Fine!” Lalna groans. He hits his forehead against his flesh arm, not the metal one. “Why does everyone keep blackmailing me?”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have betrayed Rythian in the first place?” Ridgedog points out. It wasn’t a question meant to be answered, but urgh.

“Touche.” Lalna shakes his head. “What’s this body entail, and do you have blueprints?”

\--

It’s a sad day when Parvis learns that Sparkles, Kogie and Leo have stolen his room assignment from him. It hasn’t even been a full day since the launch from Pandora. They’re all supposed to share, and he can’t even do that with these  _ betrayers  _ of the childhood promise. Heathens, all of them! The three shut the door in his gaping face before he can start yelling about how unfair it is.

Fuming, Parvis tugs his ECHO device from his pocket when it dings.

> hey so uh, we decided that we wanted you to find your own room since you cant really ever keep it clean

> and we dont want any bugs and stuff near our guitars

> BUT I DO KEEP IT CLEAN

> parvis the last time we cleaned your room even the skags wouldnt eat your leftover food

> ILL TRY HARDER

> sorry parvis ur on ur own

> we’ll buy you lunch everyday or something to make up for this

> dont hate us, yeah? jam sessin’s still on so see you there xoxoxo

> GO F*** YOURSELVES, ALL OF YOU!!!!!!!

It’s hard to hide the churning mix of betrayal, frustration and rage crashing their way through his internal moods. 

He’d been so excited to share, brainstorming multiple ideas of how they could all have different corners, even a big carpet (they could never have carpets back in the dam; mould was a big issue, and not to mention, the party animals amongst them would have burned it sooner or later), a beanbag for jam sessions, and now? He’ll never get to see those ideas come to fruit.

Forlorn, Parvis retraces his steps to the refectory (why they couldn’t call it a ‘cafeteria’ or ‘mess hall’ is beyond anyone). He takes a lone bench for himself. It’s almost empty at this hour, only a few crew members checking the menu and holding quiet conversations. Everybody else is moving into their brand new, shiny rooms. 

Unfortunately, S and the bitches who won’t be named drew a collective straw for a group room. Everybody else, like Rythian, Lalna, Ridgedog (for someone who lives off the ship, they don’t really deserve a private, luxury room but nobody can argue with the lottery results), Panda, Martyn and Nilesy got lucky. A whole room! To themselves!

Parvis counts off the winners of that draw, crooking a finger down with every name. He’s forgetting someone...Will Strife! Gasping, Parvis ransacks his memories of the frigate’s layout, and when he’d last seen Will.

Parvis skips from the refectory to the puzzlement of Honeydew, a half-assed plan forming in his buzzing, excited mind.

There’s already nameplates bolted to the doors in the hallway. Parvis finds the one with his best friend’s name on it (goodbye Sparkles, you traitor, Will is now occupying that spot) and knocks.

It’s not even a minute when Will answers. He’s still dressed in his trademark suit, though his sleeves have been rolled up to his elbows. His distinctive sunglasses are nowhere to be found. He nonchalantly raises an eyebrow upon seeing Parvis eagerly standing there.

“What can I do for you, Parvis?” Already posturing, Will leans against the doorway. It blocks the view Parvis is trying to get of his room.

“Can we be roommates?” Parvis immediately stops trying to crane his head around Will’s shoulders, focusing on the man himself.

“Roommates?” Will’s flustered expression smoothes itself over as soon as he recovers.

“Pretty please?” Parvis puts on his best puppy-eyed look. His fans couldn’t resist that one.

“No.” Will is immune, his rejection blunt and prompt.

“Why not?” Parvis drops the look, deeply hurt and wounded for visibly offended. “I can do a chore list! I’ll do my jam sessions elsewhere! I’ll share my snacks!” He really presses his brain cells to the max for pros of sharing, and it’s logical. Mostly. That should appeal to Will, right? Will likes logical reasons.

“I don’t think these rooms are meant for sharing,” Will points out.

“I dunno, Zylus and Daltos are making it work somehow.” Parvis gestures over a shoulder. He also fires a furtive glance in the direction of the two’s doors, to check if anybody’s listening. Safe, he returns to wearing down Will’s defences with his backup strategy: wheedling.

“I got nowhere else to go!”

“Why don’t you ask Arsenal for a new room assignment?” Will suggests. “He’s right next door over there.” He helpfully points at the corresponding nameplate.

“There’s none left!” 

Also, Parvis doesn’t really want to disturb Arsenal, who’s been operating on CEO levels of coffee, donuts and insomnia for the past month sorting storage, rooms, people, supplies and all the best, fiddly bits of running a frigate about to leave the planet for the first time in a decade. 

There’s an explicit order not to disturb the poor guy and let him sleep in for a week. Emergencies are not included. Consequences are yet to be discovered. There’s bets going on what punishment it is.

“Go crash with someone else until he fixes it?”

“I don’t want to!” Parvis puffs his cheeks out.

“Then why’re you asking me if you know I’ll say no?”

“I thought you’d say ‘yes’, and we wouldn’t be standing here, shouting at each other like idiots!” Parvis forgets to use his indoor voice.

“ _ I’m _ not shouting, you are!”

“Now  _ you’re _ shouting!”

_ Bwap.  _ A bright orange neon projectile whizzes past Will and Parvis’ heads, sticking to the wall beside Will’s shoulder. The two trace the trajectory to an open door, a disheveled person reloading the toy gun.

“Could you folks kindly keep it down? Next time, it’ll be live rounds.” Arsenal waits until Will and Parvis nod like bobbleheads before retreating back into his room. His two kraggons jockey for position behind his legs, burfing up a storm. The door closes with a soft click.

Parvis and Will count down a full minute in unbroken silence. Parvis doesn’t even dare whistle or jiggle a leg, the tension in the air holding him in place.

“Will Fucking Strife, I saved your life!” Parvis hisses, not a second later as soon as Will nods when time’s up.

“Oh, playing that card now, are we?” Will hisses and jabs at him with a finger. “And I saved Pandora!”

“I did too!”

“No, you didn’t,” Will denies, awfully smug.

“I broke my leg for everyone!” Parvis yanks up his pants leg, where a giant, nasty scar scores the flesh. A slightly guilty expression flickers over Will’s face. Parvis leaps on it like the last, unattended kebab. “Why don’t you want to share with me? Am I a bad friend?” Is that maybe why Sparkles, Kogie and Leo kicked him out?

“You’re not a bad friend,” Will immediately says.

“Then  _ why?” _ Parvis blinks back frustrated tears, his bottom lip wobblin. He’s not upset, he’s not upset, he’s not upset, he keeps repeating in his mind.

Will sighs. “I’m not very good at sharing rooms, that’s all. Don’t read too deep into it, that’s the way it’s always been, even in college...wait, why’re you crying?”

“I’m not!” Parvis hotly snaps, furiously wiping away at his face with the back of his hands. He glares at Will through a blur of hot tears. “I’m upset ‘cause my friends kicked me out of the room we were supposed to share, I don’t wanna kick up a fuss with Arsenal ‘til he’s all good again, and you’re my last resort so I don’t sleep in the hallway, locker room, or cargo bay.”

“Parvis, if it’s that bad, why didn’t you  _ say _ so?” Will steps aside, shaking his head.

Parvis blinks in confusion. Clicking his tongue, Will reaches over to drag him inside with surprising strength. The door closes, sealing the two in.

Will’s room is as neat as a hotel’s, everything laid out and in its proper place. Parvis doesn’t dare step off the mat, worried that his icky boots will smear dirt and mud all over the shiny, tiled floor. 

Will returns with a tissue. He hands it to Parvis, who takes it and blows his nose. It’s a small comfort to see that his boots aren’t much cleaner. Parvis cautiously steps off the mat.

“Thanks,” Parvis mumbles. The urge to cry’s stemmed by gratitude and the will to not look like a blubbering idiot in front of his benefactor.

Will paces the room, tapping his chin with a couple fingers. He hums and hems. “If I move my bed over and half of my shelves, I can probably squeeze another thing in, and some crates. It’ll be a tight fit.”

“That’s what Will said,” Parvis whispers. He’s just glad Will’s agreeing to this.

“Out,” Will simply says, beginning to push Parvis towards the door.

“Okay, okay! No more ‘what they said’ jokes!” Parvis continues to whisper, remembering to keep his voice down.

Will drops the attempt on the spot. Parvis swings around to face him. Will is already undoing the fixtures for the bed. Parvis hurries over to help him.

“I’ve put in an order for a cot since I don’t know if Arsenal has any beds left.”

“What, we can’t share a bed?” Parvis’ innocent question has Will flushing.

“Absolutely not.” Will retrieves the screws and heaves the whole bed sideways. “Hold this for me.”

Parvis obeys. The fixture slots neatly into the wall. Will pops the screws back in. In less than ten minutes, the bed’s back. Well, his bed, that is. 

“What do I do until my bed arrives?” Parvis has a blanket he can use but he doubts it’ll be rather comfortable on the cold, hard tiles, and Will doesn’t have a carpet or a rug. Somehow, this doesn’t surprise Parvis. It’d probably be made out of old ties.

“Sleep on the floor, princess.” Will softly snorts, and goes right back to what he was doing: rearranging the room for Parvis’ sake. There’s cardboard boxes everywhere, each neatly labeled with marker. That’s in contrast to Parvis, who shoved everything of his into a tab labeled ‘junk and shit.’

_ “Princess?” _ Pavis huffs. “Me, on the floor?”

“You’re not a prince. You don’t have the hip swagger for it, and the entirely wrong facial hair,” Will observes without turning around.

“Oh, I can swagger! And beards are hard!” Parvis starts to unpack his own things, dumping a couple of sad looking boxes on the floor with loud thumps.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, what do you think you’re doing?” Will interrupts Parvis, sliding in front of him. “I’m not done fixing my space yet!”

“But I want to unpack! My guitar probably misses me!” The last part’s a joke that flies over Will’s head.

“You have to wait until I’m finished! Can’t have you suddenly messing up my floor plan!” Will cheerfully grabs the boxes and stuffs them into Parvis’ arms. “Go stand in the corner until I tell you that it’s fine.” Will pauses, then adds in a low, threatening tone that’s a complete mood whiplash. “Or I kick you out.”

“You’re enjoying bossing me around way too much,” Parvis mutters sulkily, taking his two meagre boxes to the corner to huddle up with them.

\--

A few days later, Arsenal officially marks Parvis as Will’s roommate (freeloader, bestie, moocher, etc.). He adds a nameplate under Will’s one, to Will’s annoyance. It delights Parvis. He rubs it into Sparkles’ face at lunch. Sparkles just rolls his eyes.

Other than that, Parvis suggests sharing a bed until his cot arrives. He’s tired of the floor. It makes him ache in places he never even thought of.

Will shoots down that offer, saying in mock horror that he’s saving himself for marriage. Parvis rolls his eyes. He explains that the bed sharing is perfectly normal among bandits, given that not every gang had enough cots, bed rolls, blankets or pillows to go around.

This has the effect of causing Will to lock up. Parvis walks around Will, waving a hand in front of his face. No reaction. Parvis picks up a tie from the dresser and starts to tie knots using it.

Will hurriedly snatches the tie off him and stuffs it back into its proper place in storage.

“Welcome back!” Parvis greets, happy to pretend that the last few thirty seconds don’t exist.

“We are  _ not _ sharing a bed,” Will snaps. “And my bed, at that.”

“Why, you worried you’ll be the wrong spoon?” Parvis puffs up proudly. “Don’t worry, I’m a fork.”

“What does that even  _ mean?” _

“Man, it’s like all you big name Vault Hunters are terrified of a little cuddling.”

“I’m not terrified of cuddling!”

“So says the man who doesn’t wanna cuddle with me,” Parvis smugly points out.

“I refuse to cuddle someone who’s been wearing the same shirt three days in a row.” Will huffs.

Parvis picks his shirt between his thumb and forefinger, sniffing it. “Smells fine to me! And I can change it if it bothers you!”

“Point is, I refuse to cuddle!”

“Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.” Parvis winks. “Don’t worry, I don’t fart when I sleep.”

“That’s not the issue here.”

“Okay, if you don’t want to cuddle, then we don’t have to cuddle.” Parvis is willing to drop the subject and leave it at that, no last shots fired.

Will has a weird knack for springing surprises that just knock the breath out of someone.

“I’ve never cuddled anyone before,” Will says, after a beat of silence which Parvis spends changing his shirt (just in case Will’s sense of smell is more sensitive than his). “Had sleepovers, and crashed next to people, but never cuddled, or been cuddled.”

“Really?” Parvis goggles at him. Parvis loves cuddling of any kind. It’s just nice, falling asleep in a warm pile of limbs and blankets. He’s less scared of freezing to death that way.

It’s hard to believe that such a well-organized, picky, moody, tie-loving, suity, silver-tongue man like him’s never had a decent cuddle in all of his life. It’s kind of sad and Parvis wants to make fun of him, but he senses that it’s one of  _ those _ topics.

“Never shared, not about to, not until you brought it up.”

“I can’t believe you’re so  _ lonely,” _ Parvis whispers, to take the edge off the depressing tension.

“Shut up,” Will scowls at him. That’s better, and more like him.

“We can try it tonight if you want.”

“I’ll think about it.” Will forces the end of the conversation by picking up his briefcase and abruptly leaves the room.

Parvis doesn’t mind if he doesn’t, but again, he’d like to have a mattress under him so he’s not crickly all the time.

He forgets about the bed sharing because he’s awesome. 

Will brings it up an evening after Parvis forgets about it. It might be because Parvis woke up, pulled a muscle, scared the shit out of Will when yelling in pain, and needed help to stand up. He’s definitely feeling sorry for him.

Generous to take advantage of his goodwill, Parvis is prepared for bed an hour earlier than Will is. He’s decked in a set of bed clothes, ratty jeans and a t-shirt (yes, clean). Owns his own pillow too. He even sneakily checked that he’d fit in the bed when Will wasn’t looking (he can, if he tucks himself up to cuddle).

After dawdling with paperwork, Will changes. He returns in a tank top and black pyjama pants. He deadeyes Parvis, then motions to the bed. Vox dims the lights after the two have the cursory ‘what side’ chat. 

The bed is cool, and a dream. Parvis’ bones radiate relief at a proper surface to sink into. Will sleeps on his side, facing away. He doesn’t snore, but tosses and turns until he’s ready to nod off.

Parvis cuddles his pillow so he doesn’t hug Will and invade his personal space. 

“Hey Will?”

“What?”

“This isn’t cuddling.”

“You wanted to share my bed, you’re sharing my bed. What more do you want?”

“You said you wanted to cuddle.”

“I will ask Atomic to shoot you.”

“Can’t do that if I’m cuddling you.”

“Why are you so insistent? You can’t sleep if you don’t cuddle-wuddle?”

“The cuddleless can’t make fun of the cuddler!”

“Shut up and let me sleep.”

“Okay.”

“Good night, Parvis.”

“Good night, Will. Sweet dreams.”

“...”

“...”

“...Parvis. Wake up! Now!”

“What? What time is it?”

“You kicked me off the bed.”

“Oh, did I? I’m very sorry! Won’t happen again?”

“If you kick me two more times, you’re back on the floor. Geez, no wonder why they called you a ‘fork’, honestly.”

\--

After two incidents of friendly fire due to Parvis’ man made mess creeping onto Will’s side of the room, the two paint a giant white line dividing the room into two.

Parvis can’t stand how much of a neat freak Will is, and Will can’t abide by Parvis’ sprawl. Hence the line. Nothing must cross the line, or else it can be disposed of or the ownership transferred. Will hasn’t lost anything yet to Parvis, which drives him nuts. Parvis has lost a boot, some guitar picks, a shirt and several socks

It’s not his fault things don’t stay put if he feels like having a good rummage through his stuff.

Revenge is a dish served cold, or however that saying goes.

Will keeps a diary that details his entire life on  _ The Blackrock _ . Parvis would dearly love to sneak a peek at it. The few times he’s tried though, Will repels him with that Atlas turret of his, Atomic. 

Atomic occupies a pedestal between Will’s desk and bed, a garish looking meld of faded red and grey steel armed with a nuke on standby, deadly missile attachments and guns. All Parvis has is an old guitar, his wits and bandit grade guns. He doubts they’d prove a match for the turret. 

He swears the turret reacts to his muttering whenever they’re alone in the room together. The little panels with lights on the front flicker, cycling through colours. He thinks they form words, sometimes.

Today is his lucky day. Will’s taken that turret of his, likely for some kind of ‘negotiation’ that Parvis isn’t privy to. People think he’s liable to spill secrets, but that’s not true at all. Parvis still hasn’t blabbed about the knife incident involving Sparkles’ pants that made it into their top ten concerts.

Parvis spots the small book all abandoned on Will’s bed. Will’s bed is just within reach of the white line. It’s poised on the very edge, a corner protruding into thin air. With all the nonchalance he can muster, Parvis loosens his boot. With a quick of his foot, he sends it flying. With a loud thump, it hits the bedframe.

The book wobbles, sliding off the sheets. Parvis scrambles onto his hands and knees to see if it made it across the line. A corner of the book did. That’s good enough for him.

Parvis scoops the book into his hands and starts to read, more eagerly than he ever did with Lalnable’s basic ‘ABCs’, for kids aged five and up.

He slams the book shut, sprinting from the room (not before remembering that he’s missing a boot and returns to grab it, jamming it back onto his foot and leaving without bothering to deal with the laces).

\--

\- / / NOW PLAYING ECHO LOG. / / -

KirinDave: Relax! You’re in good hands here. You’re among friends.

Will Strife: Do ‘friends’ include a bunch of murderous robots?

KirinDave: Pay no mind to them!

Will Strife: Can you ask them to step out of the room?

KirinDave: You’re lucky I quite like you. Robots, shoo.

Will Strife: And where’s that creepy secretary of yours?

KirinDave: Oh, Lying? Attending to super secret business. Nowhere near here, to annoy you.

Will Strife: Just had to check. You never know, with Lying.

KirinDave: I know all too well.

Will Strife: Do you mind if I order another? I have an annoying roommate who likes to steal my leftovers.

KirinDave: Not at all. Help yourself.

Will Strife: Thank you.

KirinDave: So, can I assume that this meeting is about you joining Maliwan?

Will Strife: My answer remains a solid ‘no’, and will stay that way.

KirinDave: What if I told you that we’re onto something about the Vaults?

Will Strife: ...Go on.

KirinDave: We’ve established a couple of primary survey sites on Pandora, but have run into issues. Namely, the locals, and some Vault Hunters that are interfering with our efforts to reach some of the unexplored Vaults. You wouldn’t happen to be familiar with the name ‘Hat Corp.’, would you?

Will Strife: I’ve had run-ins, but I’ve never personally deal with them myself.

KirinDave: That’s a shame! They seem rather bent on destroying the surveyors Maliwan puts down. I could use a consulting ear on this, who might stand to gain a little profit of their own if they help out.

Will Strife: Speak plainly sir, or else we’ll be here all day.

KirinDave: I’d like you to come under Maliwan’s wings, because based on your little report, we’re about to hit it big. Wouldn’t you want to personally see the fruits of your labor? Provide a directing hand? Play a bigger role?

Will Strife: I said nothing about wanting to see what you’d do with the report, or having anything to do with it once I’d submitted it, as a contracted third party.

KirinDave: Well, that’s the opposite of what I wanted to hear! And after everything I’ve done for you, Strife.

Will Strife: Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t think palling around with Maliwan is going to get me places.

KirinDave: We’re not all corporate snakes like the eyewitness reports say!

Will Strife: I don’t want to become like you. I’d rather do another round trip of Pandora on unpaid leave.

KirinDave: That can be arranged—

Parvis: Will!

Will Strife: Parvis! What in blazes are you doing here?!

KirinDave: Who’s this? And why are you pointing a gun at me?

Parvis: I’m Parvis, former Bandit Lord of the Bloody Bandits, and I’m here to save Will Strife from your vampire fangs!

KirinDave:  _ Vampire fangs?  _ How precious! I don’t know where you got that from, but wow!

Will Strife: Let go of me, Parvis!

Parvis: We’re leaving! Before you sign anything that sleazebag gives you!

Will Strife: This was just a business lunch! And I haven’t signed anything!

KirinDave: Indeed! What made you think otherwise, Parvis?

Parvis: Will had some misgivings, yes, I learned a big word, stop looking so surprised, about you since you keep trying to recruit him.

KirinDave: He has talents! Talents that are being wasted on that tiny ship of his!

Parvis: They’re not being wasted since they’re not being used for evil!

KirinDave: Oh, if you only you’d seen the ripples Will’s friend, Rythian, caused, on the day of  _ that _ seminar. I’ll admit that I was being a little aggressive but Will, think of my offer one more time. I’ll even throw in a shiny new department for your friend, Rythian. It’ll be better than anything Atlas ever built. Unlimited budget! A crack team, a state of the art laboratory…

Will Strife: I’m not joining you if you insist on dragging Rythian into this. He’s promised that he’ll steer clear of corporate influences.

KirinDave: That’s a real shame. It’s been rather nice knowing you, Strife.

Parvis: Was that a threat?

KirinDave: I may be Maliwan, but I like my threats to be a little more subtle.

Will Strife: Parvis, let’s go. There’s no point in staying.

KirinDave: My offer is always open to you, Will Strife!

Parvis: They give me the creeps.

Will Strife: Parvis, why’d you burst in like that?

Parvis: I didn’t want you to leave us!

Will Strife: Who said anything about leaving the Vault Hunters?

Parvis: Your diary did?

Will Strife: You read my diary? Never mind.

Parvis: Sorry, but you were seriously thinking of going to Maliwan! Without telling us!

Will Strife: I was going to go undercover, but the more I think about it, the less of a good idea that sounds.

Parvis: Next time, you write that down too!

Will Strife: It was just an idea! I’d have consulted everyone else once I thought out the details!

Parvis: Will Strife, you promise me that you’ll never go to Maliwan for as long as you live!

Will Strife: What’s with the promise?

Parvis: ...I’m scared that if you leave us, you’ll become just like Handsome Jack, and we’ll all become enemies to you.

Will Strife: ...I promise that so long as I breathe, I will not join Maliwan, even if it my life is at stake.

Parvis: You actually-

Will Strife: Shut up, and gimme back my diary.

Parvis: Here.

Will Strife: And wipe that smirk off your face, it’s unbecoming. And thanks, for finding me.

Parvis: That’s what friends are for! Can we get rid of the white line?

Will Strife: No, because you read my diary.

Parvis: Aw! Hey, what if I started a diary too?

Will Strife: I care not for your own diary.

Parvis: I’ll put down how my studies about becoming a medic’s going, and how many times you think of ties!

Will Strife: You, stop talking, now, before I nuke you.

\- / / NOW ENDING ECHO LOG. / / -


	3. part three.

\- / / NOW PLAYING ECHO LOG. / / -

Ridgedog: Zylus?

Zylus: Yes?

Ridgedog: Do you have a moment? I want to talk to you about some things.

Zylus: Of course! Daltos, Ridgedog wants to talk. I’m leaving my shift to you!

Daltos: Don’t have too much fun!

Ridgedog: Can we talk in my room? Vox, you can join us.

Zylus: Are we secure, Vox?

Vox: As secure as can be. Minus surveillance. Pardon my little joke.

Zylus: What’s wrong?

Ridgedog: I’m worried I might be experiencing rampancy.

Zylus: Rampancy?

Vox: The term is used to describe episodes that an A.I. might have when it exceeds parameters that are unspecified as part of its behaviour and and operating terms. A.I. may experience debilitating episodes that can span from moral, logic, behavioural, mental conflicts to erratic outbursts. The list goes on and on. It’s well documented in Dahl’s studies.

Zylus: Why would you think you’d be going rampant?

Ridgedog: In my spare time, I’ve been going through this body’s memories, and it feels like I’m not ‘me’, I’m ‘them’, and I can’t tell who’s who anymore.

Zylus: Why?

Ridgedog: This body’s old owner wasn’t...very nice, to anyone or themself. I don’t like it, and I’ve been trying to be better and not act like them but I have to, so that nobody suspects that I’m not them, but lately...I like being mean.

Zylus: Sometimes, we experience conflicting things. It’s a part of being human.

Ridgedog: How?

Zylus: It’s like being attracted to Ravs. Even though he jokes about sex a lot, I wouldn’t sleep with him, but I like the attention he gives me whenever he flirts.

Ridgedog: Not a conventional example, but I can see how it works. Zylus, you can sleep with Ravs, I won’t judge you.

Zylus: I’M NOT DOING THAT.

Ridgedog: But he gave you a dildo the other day!

Zylus: THAT WAS BECAUSE HE TOOK IT OFF HIS POOR PIGEON AND WAS BEING STUPID AND ASSUMED I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT IT WAS.

Vox: I have the recording if you wish to view it later.

Zylus: Is it possible to delete it?

Vox: All recordings must be archived for security purposes. For all deletion requests, please see Martyn!

Zylus: I get it! Just don’t go showing it off.

Vox: Your wish is my command.

Ridgedog: So, even if I like being mean and not being mean, that doesn’t mean I’m not human?

Zylus: Sort of. Sometimes we do bad things because we have to, in the general sense. We rationalize it so that we can stay sane. I can’t tell you what to do and not do, since you’re free and to tell you otherwise would violate so many different laws. And Vox would vent me into space.

Vox: You got it!

Ridgedog: Is it okay if I stop acting sometimes?

Zylus: Yes! Of course it is!

Ridgedog: Being human is hard.

Zylus: I’m human, and I completely agree.

Ridgedog: Do you think I should have a backup plan just in case I go fully rampant?

Zylus: You should probably talk to Xephos and Pyrionflax about that. I don’t think I could shoot you if it came to that.

Ridgedog: Hm...good point! Thank you!

Zylus: Are you going to have dinner with us?

Ridgedog: You go on ahead! I want to talk with Vox a bit more.

Zylus: I’ll save you a spot!

Vox: Shall I make an appointment?

Ridgedog: Don’t bother. They’re already keeping tabs on me, and if they really meant what they said back on the mining rig, they’ll already have countermeasures in place.

Vox: I see. See you at dinner, father.

\- / / NOW ENDING ECHO LOG. / / -

\--

Zylus’ duties aboard the frigate boils down to two things: training, and keeping himself alive. The first is child’s play. It involves dealing with people and not himself. The latter one does, and well, Zylus still wrestles with the idea that he’s got so much free time on his hands between shifts, and not enough to occupy his restlessness.

He tries to sneak onto the bridge, volunteering his time off to help the bridge crew. Arsenal kicks him out with a far too cheerful grin, and insists that he’s got everything under control, now go and get some rest, please, before he has to call a Loader to carry Zylus to his room. Not wanting to make a scene (and he doesn’t really think Arsenal is joking, not by the way his eyes appear so serious), Zylus reluctantly drifts through the frigate.

Walking from one end to the other eats up his time, if he paces himself. He goes to gym, reads, or helps in the kitchen until Nilesy pushes him out. He rarely runs into Daltos, aside from when he’s on the bridge, even if both their time off overlaps for a few hours, thanks to the miracles of admin (thanks, Sherlock). He has no idea if someone else manipulated it that way on purpose. Arsenal’s time off also overlaps his and Daltos, periodically.

He runs into Siebel, one of Daltos’ lieutenants, hiding in one of the cargo holds. Siebel’s leafing through a bunch of comic books falling apart at the spine and edges. Siebel gazes at him carefully, laying aside the books. Siebel doesn’t talk much; the other former lieutenants make up for their silence tenfold with their nonstop banter and chatter.

Come to think of it, Zylus doesn’t know the bridge crew very well yet. Clearly, Siebel is occupied. He mumbles an apology and goes to leave.

“You looking for Daltos?” Siebel’s question is tinged with mild curiosity.

“No,” Zylus automatically says, his hands curling up against his sleeves. Siebel slides off the crate they’re using as a seat. Nobody else drifts this far back in the frigate. It’s the perfect place to have a private conversation (free from human ears, at least).

“He’s in his room.” Siebel is peering at him curiously. Siebel is cordial, soft-spoken, everything that bandits aren’t.

With a jolt, Zylus realises that all of Daltos’ lieutenants finally know his and Zylus’ entire sordid history, whether from the one that betrayed the gang, word of mouth or directly from Daltos. It does explain why each of them are so excruciatingly polite to Zylus, like they know how much Zylus affects their boss.

Siebel didn’t need to tell him that, but they’re trying to help him when they didn’t need to. Zylus mumbles his thanks, and departs. Siebel goes back to their comic books.

Lalnable corners him shortly after that. Zylus skipped out on the rest of his pre-flight medical checks, and Lalnable is annoyed that such a giant portion of his file is empty. Zylus didn’t mean to, but other things had happened– one look at Lalnable’s face and he shuts up.

He’s finally exhausted all his excuses to avoid discussing his eye and head (all of it, and not just the unfinished business with the Dahl mark). Lalnable drags him to the medical bay.

Zylus walks in, obeying Lalnable’s instruction to ‘sit’. He notices a familiar flash of blue next to him; Daltos is here too. 

Daltos doesn’t look too surprised to see him. He pulls his jacket back on, zipping it up. He slips off the other bench.

Behind him, Zylus glimpses all the medical chart displays. One displays a heartbeat, stable and strong. Daltos grabs his digistruct modules from a metal trolley, the motion dragging Zylus’ attention back to him. Daltos blinks, and the telltale blue in his right eye is gone, replaced by a familiar, safer brown.

Before Zylus can greet Daltos, Lalnable pulls the curtain shut, stepping in. He puts away a defibrillator, shutting it in a cupboard. He glances at Daltos and Zylus, then settles on letting his displeasure show. It’s directed at Zylus. Zylus swallows and blinks. 

“I can go if you don’t want me here.” Daltos moves to leave, stepping towards the curtain. He gazes at Zylus over one shoulder, his jaw set. Waiting.

Zylus shakes his head. There’s no reason that Daltos should be here for an examination that isn’t his own, but his presence helps. Daltos remains by the closed curtain. 

That settled, Lalnable quizzes Zylus on the basics, before delving into the advanced part of the check-up. Zylus has a minor flashback to bombing his second grade spelling bee. At least he doesn’t have to hide the result of this one from his cousins.

“Are you sexually active?” Despite knowing that it’s a routine question, Zylus’ gut practically  _ burns _ . No matter how many times Daltos patiently reminds him that sex (both the act of wanting  _ and _ enjoying) isn’t anything to be ashamed of, Zylus can’t stop his own shame-filled reaction. It’s amazing how Lalnable doesn’t notice. 

Zylus’ hands twist at his rumpled shirt sleeves. “Um.”

“A ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ will suffice,” Lalnable prompts with too much gentleness. “I don’t need any graphic details, unless you’ve been experiencing difficulties.”

“No difficulties at all.” Zylus looks at Daltos. Not for help, but for reassurance. Daltos gives nothing away in his expression when he looks back at Zylus. He nods. Zylus looks down. He mumbles another affirmation. Lalnable jots it down on his clipboard. 

He pricks a drop of blood from a finger on Zylus’ left hand, collecting it on a colourful test strip the length of his thumb. Lalnable impatiently taps the strip, harrying the rest of the diminishing drop through the remaining sections. 

“Clean,” He informs Zylus, lobbing the used strip into a bright yellow biohazard bin. Again, he makes another note. “You should always practice safe sex though.”

A high-pitched noise of embarrassment escapes Zylus. The corner of Daltos’ mouth faintly twitches. Zylus has half a mind to tell Lalnable that they always do; it’s a mutual understanding they’re long past fucking around with other people. Other people would run screaming from the mountain of issues Zylus and Daltos cart around with them. Not each other, though. Not each other.

“Is that all?” Zylus would very much like to flee this room as soon as possible.

“Not quite. When we met last time, we discussed potentially calibrating your eye, and removing the last Dahl mark in your forehead.” Lalnable puts his clipboard down. ‘Discussing it’ is putting too generously. Back in T-Bone Junction, Zylus had practically bolted at the suggestion of calibration. “Do you still want to?” When Zylus says nothing, Lalnable adds, “Nobody is judging you if you choose not to. It’s your choice.”

“If he does, he can stop wearing that unfashionable monocle,” Daltos says, smirking. It’s the first time he’s spoken up since asking if Zylus wanted him to stick around. 

Zylus shoots him a familiar half-hearted glare. Yes, he’d like to see normally again, and yes, he’d like to stop having his head hurt whenever the temperature drops below ten degrees.

“The calibration takes less than ten minutes,” Lalnable advises Zylus, ignoring Daltos. “But the mark will take me about half an hour, including preparations. You won’t feel a thing.” His confidence in his own abilities is reassuring.

“Maybe he just likes having both too much to agree to it,” Daltos comments, because he’s a goading piece of shit.

Zylus rips the monocle from his face, shoving it into his inventory. Just to wipe the stupid smirk off Daltos’ face, Zylus aggressively agrees to both procedures (even if a part of him wants to curl up and hide under the bench, scared that both operations are going to fail horribly and he’ll be down an eye again, and have another hideous scar forever).

While he said it’d take less than ten minutes, Zylus makes it double that. He keeps flinching whenever the calibration tool drifts close to his face. It thwarts the tool; Lalnable sighs, lowering it.

“You need to let the tool interface with your eye,” He chastises, with practiced patience. Zylus  _ knows. _ He’s just as frustrated with himself. Stopping the reflex is beyond his ability.

Daltos steps over. He slips his hand into Zylus’. Zylus can’t feel the comforting warmth of his palm through the glove in the way, but he can imagine it.

Zylus stares at the hand hanging loosely in his own. He takes it, grateful. Daltos keeps a poker face, staring at the curtain like it’s no big deal. Lalnable says nothing, on standby. 

Zylus lets the tool float in front of his eye. His eye resets, a picture of bleak darkness, and Zylus is squeezing Daltos’ hand, his nails digging into the rough material. His head floods with static, a roaring, blank silence of nauseating fear.

The eye boots back up. It renders his sight fuzzy, all jagged lines and jarring blurriness. The gradual shift to perfect vision has Zylus blinking, trying to gauge if it’s normal, not having to squint to force his eye to focus properly. No pain either.

Lalnable tweaks a few of the settings, walking Zylus through a series of vision tests. He passes them all with flying colours; Lalnable clears him, clearly pleased with the result.

Before Zylus can pat himself on the back, Lalnable brings out a set of surgical tools, still wrapped in their sterile packaging. Daltos’ hand stays an anchor, keeping Zylus grounded.

Lying down on the bench, Zylus submits himself to Lalnable’s steady hands. He still hangs onto Daltos’ hand as Lalnable preps the anaesthetic gel. Lalnable fetches Daltos a stool to sit on so he can keep Zylus company. When Lalnable cuts Zylus’ head open with a scalpel, Zylus sucks in a breath that he swears breaks his own ribs. 

The immediate squeeze around his fingers doesn’t dry the tear leaking from his eye, but it’s just as good as wiping them away. The old trauma fixates on fingers on his head, not tools.

By the time Lalnable is done, Zylus opens his eyes. Tear tracks stain his cheeks. He can hardly feel anything above his eyes, feeling like his whole head is swathed in cotton wool. Someone eases him upright. Zylus blankly stares at the floor. The gel’s done something to his ability to hold himself up.

Lalnable hands him a slip of bloody metal. Blood stains the cushion of gauze it sits upon. It’s encased in a small, transparent, cylindrical container, like the kind used for urine samples. The lid is sealed tight, Lalnable’s handwriting on the sticker detailing the contents, and everything Zylus already knows about today’s procedure.

Zylus pockets it, slurring his thanks. Lalnable signs him off, and prescribes painkillers, bandages and antibiotics. After that, well, Zylus has no idea. He knows that he’s led back to his room so he can sleep it off.

Lalnable shakes his head, packing away his tools. Maybe he’d used too much gel to keep Zylus placated. 

By the arm, Daltos leads Zylus out the medical bay’s door. Daltos takes the route with the least people; he doesn’t want to be interrogated by people wanting to know if he actually tore into Zylus.

The idiot hasn’t changed his room code yet. Daltos steers Zylus towards the neatly made bed. Too bad he’s going to undo all of Zylus’ hard work. Getting Zylus out of his clothes (this time, heh) is a pain; whatever gel Lalnable used, it’s bulldozed Zylus’ hand and eye coordination. It’s like undressing a rusty mannequin. More infuriating, Zylus won’t _ let go. _

As funny as it is to see Zylus spacing out, Daltos has a drinking session with Minty and Ravs to get to. Minty’s already ordered, judging by the abundance of impatient messages awaiting his attention. It won’t take Ravs long to catch up, and there’s no hope for him once the two get into the swing of it.

Failing jiggling his hand pointedly, he slips his hand out of the glove. Daltos shakes his hand free of pins and needles, as though Zylus had almost broken it with his grip. 

Zylus holds up the empty glove, forlorn and lost. Daltos swaps the glove for one of the three pillows Zylus randomly keeps around. Zylus buries his face into it. A firm but gentle push to one shoulder causes Zylus to topple onto his side. Zylus is immediately out like a light, eyes sliding shut and snuggling into the pillow, sleepily mumbling nonsense.

Pulling his glove back on, Daltos sighs, dumping a few other items onto the nearby desk. He throws a sheet over Zylus. He turns down the light. With one last look, he departs, breaking into a jog if he has any hope in getting drunk without being left behind.

Zylus fitfully wakes up in his own bed. He kicks off the sheet covering him, throwing aside the pillow in his arms.

Someone must have tucked him in. They also left him water and food on his desk. Urgh, his head throbs like there’s bruises coming alive under his skin. His scattered memories flit around the inside of his head like newborn rakks testing their wings for the first time.

Zylus helps himself to the offerings, downing some of his medication. He skims the medical file in his HUD. Lalnable added that he’s not allowed back onto the bridge until a few days have passed. Great. Not exactly thrilled that he’s been saddled with more time off, Zylus drags himself back to his bed.

The light dims automatically, thanks to the frigate’s watchful guardian. He tosses and turns. No position is comfortable, and his bed feels far too empty. Siebel’s polite words float into his mind. Zylus sits up. His room is across the hallway from Daltos’ one.

He doesn’t bother getting dressed like he normally does, leaving his jacket abandoned on the floor. His modules clip to his belt. With the basics on his person, Zylus leaves his room. Just like old times, nobody’s in the hallway to accost him of breaking curfew.

Feeling like a teenager again, Zylus steps across. He raises a tentative hand, and knocks. Nobody calls him inside, but the door slides open. Daltos stands there, barefoot. He’s rubbing his eyes. He blinks, probably wondering why Zylus is here. His face resets into the state of barely restrained murder that he’s famous for.

One side of his hair is sticking up; Zylus suppresses the urge to reach up and pat the strands back down for him. Realising that he’s staring and Daltos is waiting for him to speak, he remembers the purpose of his visit.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Zylus says, a little helplessly, hating himself a little more by the second.

“Get in here then,” Daltos simply says, turning to stride off.

Surprised at the lack of blunt rejection, Zylus steps in. The door slides shut behind him. This is the first time he’s been in Daltos’ room in over ten years.

Daltos’ room is uncluttered. He has the standard regulation desk, plus another shoved in beside it. Papers, schedules, blueprints and clipboards occupy them, also creeping upwards like a carefully curated, vertical garden. He’s welded a set of hooks to the wall by the door. Two clean jackets hang from them. 

A neat row of closed lockers and a storage unit serve as his wardrobe and storage space. A couple of rumpled shirts and pants are thrown over the top. Next to the bin, a three high tower of ammo crates doubles as his bedside table. Light spills from an Atlas mining lamp, ingeniously powered by a shield battery. Zylus skips his gaze over from a familiar, half-full bottle of lube and a torn box of condoms sitting in plain sight (and easy reach).

Daltos’ bed is a real state; a stack of books rest atop a sunken pillow, multiple page corners folded down and bookmarks falling out. A dusty ashtray and two empty bottles of rakk ale almost spill onto the floor. Painkillers cascade from an upset bottle, a rainbow of tiny pills standing out on the white, mussed sheets. More clothes and boxes are kicked underneath the bed.

A crowded metal bookshelf is partnered with a compact storage unit, taking up the rest of the wall space. Zylus recognises none of the titles on the shelf. Not a lot of personal belongings occupy the topmost part of the bookshelf, save for a half-open weapon maintenance kit, a sealed pack of Anshin syringes, and most oddly, an ornate, silver cigarette lighter.

Daltos goes back to the desk, sitting down to consult his hologram. His boots are under the desk, kicked to one side. Zylus has no idea where Daltos would prefer him to sit; he slips into the bathroom to wash his face and check his bandages.

The bathroom’s thankfully spotless. It hasn’t changed. Zylus spots a familiar object, almost half hidden behind five, unwrapped packs of smokes sitting in the bin. He crouches, pulling out the item. It’s heart medication. Zylus keeps it in hand as he leaves the bathroom.

“Why are you throwing away your heart meds?” He confronts Daltos with as much gentle concern as he can squeeze into his voice.

“Don’t need them anymore,” Daltos says like it’s obvious, not looking up from his book. “Lalnable zapped me before you came in.” He mimes defibrillating someone when Zylus doesn’t get it straight away.

“Oh.” Zylus didn’t mean to be a meddling idiot. 

He still sets down the pills on Daltos’ bedside table. And then realises that Daltos’ bed is too cluttered to get into. He scoots all the painkillers back into their bottle, screwing the childproof lid shut. He sets it next to its twin. The ashtray turns out to be empty. That he sets onto the ammo crate.

The pile of books are moved onto the floor. Zylus pulls out two more shirts from the sheets. Lacking anywhere to put them, he leaves them on the lockers with the others.

Throwing one last unsure look at him, Zylus finally slips into the unmade bed, pulling the wrinkled sheets over himself. He ends up eye to eye with the bottle of lube innocently sitting less than a metre from his face.

Silently, and with as much dignity as he can muster, he cracks open one of the ammo crate’s drawers to sweep it and its companion out of sight. Daltos doesn’t turn around to crack a joke about ‘wearing him out already’ like he usually does.

A second pillow lands on the bed, causing Zylus to jump. Daltos closes the locker, moving back to his desk. Zylus hugs it to his chest. His heart thumps, beating a familiar rhythm, every beat a staccato note.

When he presses his face into it, a familiar smell floats up to meet him. It’s vaguely musty from being in a locker, but Zylus would recognise that smell anywhere.

An hour ticks by as Zylus attempts every method known to man of trying to make himself comfortable. He frees himself from a self-made cocoon of sheets, settling for watching Daltos.

Daltos is now engrossed in blueprints. A white pointer dances in his hand, his expression contemplative as he examines the hologram. He tugs it in one direction, expanding it in places, ignoring others. It’s hypnotizing.

Guilt that he’s not helping compels Zylus to leave the bed. Zylus’ feet is stopped from touching the cold floor by a tatty, handwoven mat.

He steps over to the desk, his curiosity replacing his tiredness. Daltos makes no effort to hide the blueprints. Every now and then, it flickers, jerking out of place before snapping back.

“What are you doing with that?” Zylus murmurs. Daltos turns to face him, the chair’s joints squeaking as he stretches. Every pale scar on his arms flex with the motion. Zylus firmly keeps his eyes on his face.

“I said I’d mark all the places where we’d need touch ups ready by next month, for the repair crew.” Daltos puts his arms down. There’s more bags under his eyes than Zylus remembers from the last time he saw him.

“Repair crew?”

“Didn’t Arsenal tell you?” Daltos frowns.

“No,” Zylus mumbles. His voice grows stronger when Daltos keeps frowning. “Um, he probably just forgot–“

“We’re making a stop somewhere, at some point. This frigate can’t stay in space forever, that’s why we have to bring it down.” Daltos snorts. “He probably wanted to surprise you by shouting it while jumping from around the corner.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him to pull a stunt like that.” Zylus giggles for a few seconds.

“Don’t jinx yourself,” Daltos says, with mild amusement. He begins to turn back to the hologram.

“Can I help?” Zylus offers.

“You need to rest.” The chair jerks to a stop. Daltos’ eyes move to his forehead. Zylus wishes he could hide the bandage. After a second, he adds, “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t sleep,” Zylus reluctantly admits.

“Is something wrong with my bed?” Looking far too concerned, Daltos puts down the pointer, starting to get up from his chair. Zylus hastens to stop him.

“No, your bed’s fine!”

“Then what’s the problem?” Daltos’ bluntness is nice, at a time like this. It cuts right to the chase. He watches Zylus steadily, waiting for a response. 

“It’s nothing.” Zylus stares hard, at the mat beneath his feet. 

Daltos figures it out in a few seconds, because that’s exactly the kind of person he is. It saves Zylus from having to dig up a plausible explanation that Daltos is likely to doubt. Daltos picks up the miniature hologram in one hand. In a few steps, he drops onto the bed, sprawling out on one side, his back planted against the wall.

“Come back to bed,” Daltos says with an inviting grin, adding, “dear.” The last word contains mock affection, in spite of being tacked on.

Refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he nearly made him blush, Zylus nonetheless, clambers back into the bed. Zylus carefully arranges the sheets so that it’s covering both him and Daltos. He caves into habit, pressing against Daltos’ side.

It’s exactly what he’s been missing.

The instant wave of sleepiness has him slackening, relaxing where he lays. Daltos’ free hand runs through Zylus’ hair, not helping one bit. When did he start doing that? Yawning, Zylus closes his eyes. Hugging a pillow, he soon loosens his hold on reality, slipping away.

Daltos closes the hologram by folding it in his hand. He watches Zylus for a few moments, making sure that Zylus is comfortable, before messaging the frigate’s eyes and ears. A second later, the room darkens. Daltos follows Zylus into dreaming, one arm wrapped around him.

\--

Lalnable runs a weekly check-up to make sure that Daltos’ new eye isn’t being rejected by his immune system. It’s about one in a hundred thousand, according to Anshin’s public medical stats, but neither want him to be that one rarity.

It also keeps Daltos from the bridge for an hour, away from Arsenal’s constant antics. This time, Arsenal’s trying to convince Zylus to make his kraggons co-captains. Daltos left before he’s forced to pick sides (personally, he’s against it). It’s good practice for Zylus to hold his ground; Arsenal’s nothing if not relentless, and people underestimate how stubborn Zylus is when push comes to shove.

The newly installed, top of the line biometric scanner makes Daltos uneasy; it’d been a gift from BebopVox’s near-infinite Hyperion resources. No strings attached, BebopVox had sworn. It’s hard to trust the face that BebopVox wears, even when said face is beaming with genuine honesty.

Not everyone knows BebopVox is occupying Ridgedog’s body. Daltos has his guesses about who’re secretly aware of it, those not, those who suspect, and those who BebopVox had chosen to told. He feels honoured to be included as part of the last group; then reminds himself that it’s likely because BebopVox intends for him to keep an eye on Zylus. He hasn’t forgotten his word to BebopVox either.

How could he, when the subject of said promise is around him constantly? That said, it doesn’t take much to make Zylus happy.

Zylus always asks how the appointment went. Daltos doesn’t  _ have _ to respond, but he does so anyway, to save Zylus from unnecessary fretting. Without the monocle and Dahl mark, Zylus doesn’t look as high strung and patchy. He looks freer, less held together with an outdated bit of glass, happier– that’s enough.

Today’s appointment isn’t any different. Daltos strips down to his underwear, then stands in the machine. The machine does its scanning under Lalnable’s hawk-like supervision. After that, Lalnable checks the readout. 

He complains that the new machine is too sensitive; it stated that Parvis’ attempt to grow stubble was some sort of genetic disorder involving ingrown hairs and rampant hormones. 

“Could be delayed puberty,” Daltos had muttered under his breath, earning an easily dodged swat from an offended Parvis.

Daltos is about to pull his shirt on when Lalnable gestures with a flap of his hand. Daltos stares. “What?” Lalnable’s mouth flattens. Usually, Daltos is out the door by now, until next time. This time, Lalnable offers him the clipboard. A change in routine is concerning.

Unsure of what’s happening, Daltos takes it. A frontal scan of his chest meets his eyes. His bones are painted in stark white, lined strokes. Tissue is a gruelish grey. It doesn’t mean shit to him without context. He gives Lalnable an obliging glance.

Lalnable taps and enlarges the area of interest, zooming in. The abnormality is evident. Daltos’ eyes trace the misshapen curves of a pronounced, obvious lump hugging the underside of one lung. It’s next door to the stab wound Arado gave him.

Poker faced, he hands the clipboard back. Lalnable slots it on the wall. He continues getting dressded, and then they both stare at it. Daltos holds a hand over the area, his fingers lightly pinching his jacket like he can reach in and rip it out of him, and that’ll be the end of it.

“I’ll need to perform a biopsy, and run some extensive tests. It could be anything, but we want to make sure.” Lalnable is already pulling on gloves, gathering supplies and equipment. 

Staying so calm offsets Daltos’ impulse to shoot the scan off the wall (and if only it was that simple). If that’s supposed to be consoling, Daltos doesn’t let it have that effect. He’d rather stay realistic, thanks.

Lalnable kicks Parvis out the medical bay when Parvis bounds in for his daily tutoring session. Daltos stays hidden behind the curtain, hoping that Parvis won’t spot him. Successful at getting Parvis to bother Hollie instead, Lalnable returns, apologising for the intrusion.

“Someday, you gotta cash in on all these favours I owe you for covering me,” Daltos mutters. Lalnable ‘hmphs’ as he needles him, swabbing his chest with sterilising fluid.

He closes his eyes when Lalnable presses a scalpel blade to his ribs. The shot dumping anaesthetic into his veins ensures that he isn’t awake to see Lalnable amputate and vivisect the lump free from within the deep cut.

Daltos awakens in a private recovery room. Waiting, he gingerly prods the fresh bandage under his shirt, wondering how he’s going to explain that or why his appointment took so long. He’ll just have to keep his shirt on and hope nobody pries or notices.

Lalnable steps into the curtained space. The heavy cloth swishes back into place behind him. Daltos tries to take a guess at what sort of news he has, based on how tense Lalnable looks. He’ll still have a future, either way. How long it’ll be depends on what Lalnable’s about to reveal.

“It’s benign.” Lalnable smiles tiredly at him. “Ran whatever I could twice, just to be sure.”

Daltos slumps against the bed, a hand pressed to the incision site. The worst is over, a potential bullet dodged. He’d ask for a cause but he doesn’t like what he’ll hear.

“I’ve removed all the affected tissue. You should be in the clear.” Lalnable makes a private note in his file. That’s one note that the two of them will keep coming back to. Just in case.

\--

Zoeya moves out of the frigate a few months after Rythian officially obtains his second degree. Her departure is met with many tears, mostly from Nanosounds, who hastily denies it as ‘getting lots of somethings in my eyes!’.

Saberial follows Zoeya, leaving a stern warning behind for Panda to behave. Panda promises (with crossed fingers behind their back) that they will. Teep shakes their head but waves from their ECHO call. Lomadia hands Zoeya a kitten (that she sneakily returns via Parvis). Nilesy gives her a tiny potted plant that she immediately adores and swears to cherish for the rest of her (or its) days. Ravs graces the two with hugs, and demands a future rematch for arm wrestling, plus many care packages. 

The only person who hasn’t shown up to her farewell session is Rythian. Zoeya stalls by pretending that she left her research notes behind. Saberial waves the storage module containing them. Zoeya bites the inside of her cheek and resorts to having ‘misplaced’ her famous, indestructible pencils.

Her pencils are a weapon of mass destruction in the right hands (i.e., Teep once casually threw one straight through a plaster wall and it ended up buried in a barrel on the other side). People disperse to find them. After twenty five minutes of fruitless searching, Saberial unearths the storage unit with said pencils. Saberial gives her a flat look for trying to prolong the goodbye. Nobody minds, except for her since one of them’s eager to see their new place down below.

Her plain foiled, Zoeya watches the countdown timer for the shuttle launch, wondering if it’s hopeless to be optimistic about Rythian seeing her off. Saberial hugs her around the shoulders and coaxes her into her seat.

As the timer ticks down to five minutes, Zoeya and Saberial put on their seatbelts, and the doors start to seal for departure, Zoeya turns her head to see Rythian skidding into the shuttle bay with Junior hot on his heels. Junior darts right on by, missing the bay’s door due to their momentum. Rythian begins a mad sprint towards the shuttle, arms pumping by his sides and scarf flapping behind his head.

Zoeya moves to stand, a happy yell on the tip of her tongue until her seatbelt yanks her back down by the hips. She presses her face to the glass and mouths his name. Saberial pounds on the window, encouraging him. Rythian grits his teeth and pours on speed. In their hearts, it’s too late; the rented shuttle’s automated takeoff program kicks in as Vox severs their hold on the shuttle.

The shuttle lifts off the pad and boosts, away from Rythian. Rythian stretches out one hand like he’s reaching for her. Zoeya grinds her palm against the cold glass like it can melt through and grab his, one last time. He’s gone when she opens her eyes. All that’s there is the infinite stretch of space, stars, the planet below and the frigate and lesser ships orbiting it.

Rythian slams into the seat next to Zoeya, gasping for breath. Saberial screams and punches him; Rythian ducks (not an easy feat with his height). She hits the foam headrest, her hand bouncing off. Zoeya shrieks, caught between fear, relief and joy.

“Rythian!” Saberial accuses, grinding her sore hand into a fist, glaring at him. “You picked a really good time to say goodbye!”

“I see you forgot I could teleport.” After giving her a dry look, he slicks his hair back with a hand, straightening up when he sees that she’s not going to hit him. “Look, my own schedule is all over the place, and I  _ completely _ forgot you were leaving today, not tomorrow.” He claps both his hands together, stooping. “Forgive me?”

“Forgiven,” Zoeya says, already throwing herself out of her seat to hug him. Rythian makes a surprised sound, but allows the hug. “But only if you bring Junior around to visit us on our ranch.”

“...What ranch?” Rythian stops mid-pat. He aborts the hug, staring at her.

“I bought a ranch with all the money Teep didn’t want! We’re gonna have a house, so many barns, there’s so much space for animals, I can study whatever I want, Saberial’s gonna move in with me once we clean up the place and you can visit whenever you want! Nanosounds said she’d sort out the Fast Travel with Ridgedog, but we’ll see!” Zoeya drags out the album of photos her real estate agent sent to her. She shoves it at Rythian, who can’t refuse.

He flicks through it. He knows nothing about real estate and can’t think of a compliment that sounds genuine. Fortunately, Zoeya keeps rambling. All he has to do is catch every three words.

“Sorry to interrupt, but aren’t you supposed to be back on  _ The Blackrock  _ by now?” Saberial pointedly taps the window next to her with a knuckle. “Doesn’t your teleport have a range limit?”

“Good luck with your place, and I’ll definitely try to visit.” Rythian glances at the tiny, rectangular figure of  _ The Blackrock. _ He grins. “Oh, not anymore!” With a snap of his fingers, he’s gone from the shuttle before the two gaping lesbians.

\--

Zoeya’s farm is a hulking plot of land she dreamed of owning as a kid, where the only green things in her childhood bedroom was a pair of glowing, pastel plants that bloomed at the full moon. She’d carefully trimmed the hybrid cuttings, making at tidy amount of pocket money. The plants had died eventually; not all things lived forever, but it’d been her first, clumsy exploration into the larger world of biology. 

She bought her own portable agriculture kit once she saved up enough, keeping it on her balcony, and nobody else could touch it or she’d hold her breath and go blue. She stubbornly nursed the packet of seedlings until they sprouted leaves, emerging from the soil with a vigor that she admired. She was proud of the contributions to dinner, with those handfuls of herbs she’d cultivated. 

After that, she sprang through plant group after plant group, on the hunt for knowledge. Her family entertained her; they’d never had a green thumbed member before, and encouraged her hobby. It evolved into a passion she chased into university.

Studying plants satisfied her itch but xenobiology was her true calling, her realisation hitting her halfway during her third year. She switched majors, then back, but after a lengthy negotiation with her amused dean, she walked out of university with a custom, hybrid degree. 

Zoeya promptly walked back in again for her higher qualification; she graduated after spending a full year immersed in the arctic waters of Triton, studying colonies of ice algae for their elusive properties of luminescence. Bacteria featured in the mix, though not as prominently as people originally hypothesised. Her first paper barely made an academic splash; her supervisor didn’t mind, and pointed her to another topic: the dying colossal rottrees of Gaia.

She solved that mystery after nearly quitting, her research in shambles after a logging campaign accidentally dug into her specially designated patch of trees and destroyed a quarter of the adult specimens. It turned out that rottrees thrived on the blowflies that pollinated each of the flowering vines; vines were harvested for their medicinal and flexible properties, and so on.

That brought her into the spotlight. She retreated from the public for a while, quietly writing her papers. Occasionally, she’d pop up out of nowhere to deliver a seminar before diving back into her secluded, planet hopping lifestyle. She met quite a few women too, on her journeys, but never fostered anything more than a lifetime friendship (two of which came attached with ‘benefits’).

Zoeya’s family understood her long breaks from coming home, and her wish to keep her family and work life separate. That didn’t stop people from prying, but it helped her sleep easier to know that her family couldn’t be roped into any shameful scandals if she ever got dragged into anything disastrous.

After a suggestion from her old and retired professor, she also dabbled in publishing a few books, mostly picture-filled guides. Most of them were copies of her own field notes (when she could finally decipher her own handwriting). It made her a tidy profit, and sold modestly amongst her academic circles. One broke her homeworld’s bestseller list; she brushed it off as a happy accident. Anyway, it was based on guesswork, something she reinforced multiple times, but she couldn’t stop what people consumed in droves.

Five years passed. She ended up with the title of ‘professor’. One year of domestic teaching didn’t stop her from packing up and heading to: Pandora.

Nobody ventured to Pandora just to write papers on it; its status as the last stop of the desperate deterred those curious. She’d been browsing a map of the galaxy, flicking through the collective bestiaries for her next venture. Pandora caught her eye, and the less she knew about it, the more she wanted to go.

Her university made her sign a ledger’s worth of papers, citing compensation if something happened to her, a final copy of her will, legal ownership of her stuff, and all the boring bits associated with traveling to a murderous planet that the only ships that would take her were the cargo cruisers bound for the outback settlements (barely cities; people left faster than people arrived).

Lots of things happened on Pandora. She made friends, pushed her survival skills to the limit, learned that even the toughest of live capture cameras couldn’t survive a bullymong’s thrashing, finally discovered the value of a competent research assistant, taught basic biology to a bunch of music producing bandits, cried a bunch, did fruitless searching, stood up for a town to an army, lost an arm but had it rebuilt, and, fell in love with the burliest, gentlest and toughest woman she’d ever met.

For the first time in her life, Zoeya wanted to settle down with someone. She began sketching her childhood dream on the back of some scrap paper; Saberial found it when packing to leave for  _ The Blackrock. _

“You really want a farm?” Saberial dangled the paper in front of her, grinning.

“You weren’t meant to see that yet!” Zoeya yelped and snatched it from her, shoving it down her front for safekeeping.

“You drew us kissing by the front gate.” Saberial waggled her eyebrows. The gesture makes her eyebrows vanish beneath her headband. Zoeya pouted, melting underneath her blanket in embarrassment. Saberial climbed into bed, laying her head against Zoeya’s good side (the one not sporting a metal arm). “I’m not making fun of you, I just want to know if you really do want one.”

“You gonna laugh if I do admit that I’m serious?” Zoeya couldn’t stay quiet for long, pressing closer to the delicious warmth of her girlfriend’s biceps.

“Oh no, I think a farm’s a great idea.” Saberial patted Zoeya’s rounded tummy, where the crumpled sketch had bunched up under her tank top.

“You didn’t grow up on a farm.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t want to try it, especially if it’s all you’ve ever dreamed of.” Saberial hugged her closer. “Babe, you deserve happiness.”

“I need a helping hand though.”

“I’m not commenting on the pun,” Saberial dryly said as Zoeya snickered.

“But what about being the best merc in the galaxies?”

“You think I want to spend the rest of my life shooting bad guys and doing every manner of quests? Hell no, I want to live, even if the jobs pay really well.” Saberial shakes her head, swishing her long hair. “People who keep all their limbs at the end of  _ that _ gig are the envy of all the folks who don’t.”

“I don’t want you to give up your dream,” Zoeya quietly said.

“My dream’s you.” Saberial yawned. “Being the best merc’s kind of boring now.”

“Oh, stop it, now you’re not being serious!”

“I am though. Ever since I met you, I’ve been knocking myself senseless, trying to think of what’d be perfect anniversary gift, and then I stumble on your little dream farm.” Saberial paused. “I wasn’t actually meant to say that last part.”

Zoeya stared at her. “You want to celebrate our anniversary?”

“I, uh,  _ shit.” _ Saberial floundered in in the light of Zoeya’s growing smile. “Can I get a do over?”

“You may, but in the morning,” Zoeya said. “It’s sleepytimes now.”

“I’ll take it. Goodnight, my sweetness.”

“Goodnight, my buff muffin.”

“Okay, no, buff muffin is too much.”

\--

Despite owning a ship, Zoeya and Saberial buy a second hand jeep. Saberial drives, not trusting Zoeya with the job of keeping them on the right side of the road after all that time on Pandora. 

“No matter how famous you are, the cops can’t ignore it if you do over a hundred and twenty just because you’re used to going that fast on Pandora.” Saberial ignored her pouting.

The farm’s in tip-top condition, managed by a crew of hands. Zoeya lets them all stay in the worker’s houses; she doesn’t have the manpower to look after it on her own, and Saberial can only be in so many places at once.

The two move in, transporting all of Zoeya’s research into the top floor of their new house. It takes them less than a month to settle in. Saberial doesn’t abandon her completely, still at the mercy of her mercenary lifestyle. She always came back as soon as she could, and Zoeya adjusts to understanding that Saberial will take time to untangle being one. She gets to writing her next book, sorting through all the stuff she accumulated back on Pandora.

She does miss how energetic the wildlife was, but at the same time, it’s nice to interact with things that don’t want to turn her hand into a snack of sorts. She randomly pats empty air, expecting Junior to appear underneath it. Her farmhands thinks she’s a little nuts, talking to thin air, but she pays them well, and they can put up with her eccentricities. That, and she can play the ‘weird scholar new to the farm life’ card. 

Her farm is missing one thing though: chickens.

Saberial is home. Once she’s rested up, Zoeya drags her off to the neighboring farm, a good ten minute flight by ship. They’re having a whispered argument by the show pens.

“You may have  _ one _ chook,” Saberial hisses at her.

“But what if she gets lonely?” Zoeya whispers back, her gaze pleading. She’s already eyeing a white hen pecking at the ground, several chicks clamouring for attention and food underfoot.

“Fine,  _ two _ chooks.”

“But what if they hate each other?” Zoeya needles.

“Alright,  _ four _ chooks, which is enough because there’ll be a social buffer.” Saberial smushes the guilt at Zoeya making a face at her proposal. 

She reminds herself that she isn’t letting Zoeya walk out of this place with thirty chooks, and then it happens. That’s two roosters, plus a horde of their hens, and five baby chicks that she couldn’t bear to separate from their mother.

On the way out, Zoeya carefully pushes a hover trolley with all her chosen, new tenants comfortably packed into sturdy, ventilated transport containers. She stops at an enclosure off to the side, eyeing the lone occupant with a curious tilt of her head. 

“Why’d you stop?” Saberial takes the trolley from her. 

Zoeya crouches by the pen. A Junior sized rooster forlornly pecks at the dirt by the coop, scratching with his spurred feet. She checks the sign hanging from the enclosure. “Aw, he’s been put here because he’s a weird one!”

“Weird one?” Saberial pulls the trolley over, also intrigued.

“He doesn’t want to have any kids, fights everything and everyone, and he’s a bit of a nuisance to people, apparently,” Zoeya reads off the sign.

“Babe.” Saberial closes her eyes, already knowing that Zoeya wants them to bring home this strange little rooster, even if they already have two.

“Come here, lil guy!” Zoeya digs in her pockets for some leftover scratch mix. She tosses some at her feet, through the wiring. The black rooster cocks his head, considering her. He marches over to nibble at the scratch mix. He watches her, staring at her through the gate with stern, brown eyes. “He’s not very noisy either. Is he sick?” Zoeya pushes a finger through the wiring. The rooster snorts, still watching.

“It says here that he doesn’t crow.” Saberial spies the tiny print on the sign. “He doesn’t cost that much either.”

“Please?” Zoeya puts on her best Boner eyed look. Saberial sighs, waving to the owner.

The owner spends twenty minutes chasing after the rooster, eventually herding him into his own transport box. The rooster lets out a blood-curdling scream when he’s shut in by the panting farmer. He’s still screaming (albeit it’s muffled) as Saberial gives the box to Zoeya to hold. 

“Little guy’ll do that a lot. Won’t crow for dawn, or dusk, but he’ll sure scream up a storm when he feels like it.” The farmer shakes their head.

“Why’s he by himself?” Saberial hands over the money. 

The farmer wipes off their sweat with a greasy handkerchief. “He doesn’t do so well in flocks with other chaps. He’s got too much charisma.”

“Charisma?” Saberial watches Zoeya bite her lip, trying not to laugh. Zoeya’s cooing at the rooster through the lid.

“Never seen a rooster strut his stuff so well that the other lads get jealous and attack him. Never backs down from a fight either. Lost a few tail feathers, ripped his fair share out, but he’s always come out kicking and screaming.” The farmer uneasily eyes the shaking box in Zoeya’s arms. “No refunds when it comes to this troublemaker, sorry.”

“Gosh, he’s so tiny but feisty!” Zoeya beams. The rooster keeps screaming, occasionally stopping for breath.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Saberial says as she powers up her ship. 

Zoeya risks peeking into the box on her lap, which is now giving off a sullen air. She drops another handful of scatch in, hearing an excited scuffling followed by enthusiastic pecking. “He’s alright, he just needs some time and tender loving care. Don’t you?” Busied clucking answers her.

Saberial lands the ship by one of the barns. The farmhands unleash the chickens. Saberial supervises; she can’t pry Zoeya away from the tiny rooster, not until all the chickens have been shut into their new barns to explore and adjust to their new homes.

Zoeya sets the box down. Impatient knocking against the sides ensues. “I’m gonna let him out!”

“Wait, shouldn’t you name him first?” Saberial crouches, keeping her distance.

“You know, he reminds me of Ravs.”

“You can’t name him after Ravs!” Saberial lets out a horrified and amused laugh.

“He’s got the charisma to live up to his namesake!” Zoeya argues.

“What if Ravs visits?”

“I think he’ll be mega pleased that we thought of him,” Zoeya states, then pulls up the lid. “Lil guy, your name is now Ravs,” She announces.

Ravs puffs up his hackles upon seeing her, eyeing her suspiciously from his corner. His tail feathers brush the top of the box. He opens his beak to scream– Zoeya presents some scratch, which he eagerly devours from the palm of her hand.

She shuffles back. He struts out, his head swiveling to take in this strange, new place. The watching farmhands giggle behind their hands at his size. The other roosters are twice his height. Ravs eyes them for several heartbeats, then promptly turns on his heel and strides back into the box, sitting down to face the back wall.

Saberial swears on Panda’s eleventh eye that he’s  _ sulking. _

“Ravs!” Zoeya admonishes. “Don’t you want to explore your new home?” A sulky cluck answers her question. “Nobody’ll laugh at you this time!”

Saberial sighs. It’s a sign that she loves Zoeya so deeply that she’ll tolerate Zoeya sweet-talking a chicken out of sulking.

Ravs turns, shuffling towards the opening and sticking his head out. It’s almost like he’s glaring at the farmhands, who’re still grinning and tittering about him. He takes one step out, ruffling his feathers as he straightens up. Zoeya delivers another handful of scratch. He ignores it, flapping his wings and charging towards the farmhands, screaming murder.

Saberial lets out a shocked and hysterical laugh as the farmhands collectively shit their pants and scatter. She can hear the other roosters screaming alarm behind the wooden doors as Ravs chases one farmhand down a dirt path. He soon returns to Zoeya, head held high with a satisfied twinkle in his eyes.

Zoeya is on the ground, gasping for air. Tears run down her cheeks.

“You sure picked a real winner,” Saberial says. No longer screaming, Ravs sets off to check out the freshly ploughed fields as Saberial helps Zoeya get to her feet.

The two return to the house for lunch. Twenty minutes after Saberial’s finished her sandwich, there’s a rapping at the door.

“I’ll get it.” Saberial leaves Zoeya in the kitchen, slipping into the hallway.

She levers the front door open. Nobody stands there. Puzzled, Saberial glances around the porch. A scuffle by her boots grabs her attention and gaze.

Ravs stands on the welcome mat, looking awfully pleased with himself for getting her attention. He clucks impatiently, stepping over the porch. Saberial is too stunned to stop him in time. She turns, and Ravs breaks into a light jog, darting into the kitchen.

“Come here, you little–“ Saberial slides in after him.

“Oh! Hello, Ravs!” Zoeya lifts her hands. He gracefully flaps onto Zoeya’s lap, settling there like an entitled cat, facing Saberial. Zoeya looks far too amused, giving him a head scratch. His eyes slide shut as he turns into a feathery loaf. “Did you get past the big bad dragon?”

“Push off, that’s my spot,” Saberial hisses at him, crouching so that she’s at eye level.

Ravs cracks open an eye to give her an indifferent look. 

Zoeya giggles. “Leave him alone, he’s probably starving for a bit of love.”

“He can clear off and get it from chickens, not you,” Saberial grouses, deciding to not waste her time trying to intimidate a chicken into leaving the house. She makes a sandwich, stuffing cheese and mystery greens between two slices of bread.

“I want another one too!” Zoeya says, waiting until the precise moment Saberial drops the bread knife into the sink.

“You don’t deserve one for bringing Ravs home!” Saberial says over her shoulder. She fetches a clean knife, making another sandwich. This one’s loaded with spite.

“He’s here to stay, we can’t just give him back!” Zoeya looks at him. “You like it here already, don’t you?” She coos. Ravs purrs in response. “He’s purring! Listen!”

Saberial’s heart melts at Zoeya looking so delighted at Ravs that she almost forgets to be disgruntled with him. “He stays, but only if he’s good,” She warns, putting her plate on the table. When she turns around with a refilled glass of water, Ravs’ open beak is sneaking upon her unguarded sandwich. “Hey!” Saberial snatches the plate away, spilling water across the table.

Ravs snaps his beak shut, his head retreating into his body, looking as sheepish as a hungry rooster can possibly be.

“Let him have some! I bet he’s never had a sandwich before, the poor dear.” As Saberial glares at him, Zoeya breaks off a crust sticky with cheese, feeding it to Ravs with an affectionate coo. Ravs curiously pecks at it. Crumbs rain onto the floor, the table and Zoeya’s lap.

“He can make me another one, then.” Saberial whisks her tarnished sandwich back to her side before Zoeya can feed the whole thing to Ravs. “And I really hope he doesn’t poop on you, but if he does, you deserve it.”

“He won’t poop on me!” Zoeya peers at him. “Right?”

Ravs wriggles his hunched body from side to side, the human equivalent of a head shake. Zoeya gently lowers him to the floor once she’s done eating. Ravs permits being handled with no screaming whatsoever, aside from giving a sad cluck.

“Want a tour of the house?” Zoeya asks him. Saberial rolls her eyes; Zoeya’s having way too much fun indulging Ravs. Maybe she’s trolling her.

Ravs flaps his wings, following her out. Saberial mentally compares him to a dog, but he’s messier and louder (and punier, but that’s obvious). She sighs, lowering all the plates and cups into the sink to wash later, heading off to go deal with the farmhands, and to reassure them that Ravs isn’t that menacing.

The farmhands are reluctant to believe her, but after a few days of spotting Ravs following Zoeya around the farm, they defrost. Ravs is at her heels (or Saberial’s, if Zoeya’s too immersed in work). Saberial begrudgingly finds it cute; Ravs soon comes running when called, summoned with a wolf whistle or by shouting his name. He won’t respond to any other whistles.

Zoeya constructs a miniature coop for him, right by the house. It’s a disused doghouse she converted into a two story home. Ravs has everything he needs to be comfortable, and yet, he’s a daily visitor. 

The wire fencing enclosing his house does little to keep him penned in; Ravs can jump the fence and gate, trotting over to the front door to wait. Saberial and Zoeya spent a memorable night staying up to solve that mystery. Saberial doesn’t have the heart to stuff him back in when it’s clear that Ravs loathed being cooped up, after spending so long confined on his own.

A few hours after the sun rises, he’s usually sunbathing on the porch when Zoeya or Saberial leave to get the morning newspaper.

It takes Saberial and Zoeya two weeks to realise that they haven’t received any junk mail or newspaper. It’s sad for Saberial, who likes trawling the appliance ads for cheap deals, and Zoeya is fond of her discount furniture, now that she has a house to finish decorating. 

For once, Ravs is mysteriously absent; Saberial decides to clean his little house anyway, about to switch the bedding for a fresh set. Ravs bursts out of his house.

Saberial is unfazed; she’s faced down a giant skag on Pandora, so a tiny, hissy rooster isn’t that intimidating. She swiftly picks up Ravs and lobs him over the fence; he flaps onto the ground, now stuck on the other side. He screams, frustrated.

Ignoring him (and now used to the screaming), she reaches into his house, scooping out the stale straw into her compost bin. A streak of red and blue piques her attention. Straw’s yellow, or should be, not a mixture of black, white and a rainbow of murky colours, plus dried chicken poop. She narrows her eyes.

Ravs lands by her boots, puffing up and in full attack mode. Saberial shoos him away, emptying out his house. He retreats, sulking by his water and feeder, realising that it’s useless to fight her.

“Don’t give me the stink eye for cleaning up after you!” Saberial mutters. “And you stole all the junk mail and newspaper!” She separates two crumpled, unreadable pages of wrecked newspaper. “You’ve been stealing and shredding them!” Ravs gives a little, affronted shake of his body, not looking at her. “Naughty! Zoeya, I found your newspaper!”

Zoeya sticks her head out of the upstairs window. “Great! Where was it?”

“Ravs stole it and shredded it!” Saberial calls up, brandishing the illegible bits of paper at her.

“Oh!” She laughs. Ravs grumbles in chicken speak. “How’d he get into the mailbox?”

“Did you bully the courier?” Saberial inquires, shooting him a dirty look. Ravs kicks at the ground, head turned away. “I think he did.”

“We’ll send an apology to the local post office. Do you think they’d appreciate a basket of fresh eggs too?”

Saberial wants to kiss her very badly for her diplomatic senses. Ravs slinks back into his little house for a temporary sulk.

\--

Ravs (the human, not the rooster) sends over a care package as part of his ongoing mission to keep Zoeya well fed and cared for. She sends him a few jars of salt preserved eggs. Discussions of this treat provoked bouts of disgust amongst those with weaker stomachs, like Lalna, Zylus, Will, and jealousy amongst those with a craving for them, like Nanosounds, Minty, Arsenal, and Rythian, of all people. She has several batches preserving in one of the sheds; they’re proving to be one of the farm’s long term golden eggs (pun not intended).

When Saberial leaves the house for the daily paper check, she finds Ravs (the rooster, not the human) parked in loaf mode on top of a package left underneath the mailbox. He steps down from it, eyeing the farmhand’s lounging dogs on the other side of the road. The dogs are well-trained not to chase after the chickens, or suffer the wrath of Ravs, whose spurs are still wickedly sharp in spite of his previous, long confinement in solitary.

Saberial knows he can’t talk back to her, but she still greets him with a perfunctory, “Good morning.” 

He yawns, clucking back sleepily. He’s too nimble to be fooled by Saberial trying to close the front door on him, darting around the edge and into the hallway. His feet tick-tack on the wooden floor behind Saberial.

Zoeya’s slumped on the couch, checking her ECHO device for messages. “A local school wants to have us host a tour of how we run things! We’ll get paid pretty nicely for it, but I wanted to check with you first before replying.”

“I think it’s fine, so long as we set down some basic rules.” Saberial peers at Ravs, who’s currently preening himself with utmost care by the coffee table. He’s allowed on the furniture, provided he hasn’t dust bathed recently or gotten muddy. “How do you think Ravs will behave around kids?”

“We could always ask the farmhands to bring their kids over and see? He’s pretty nice to everybody who doesn’t laugh at him.” 

Saberial grabs their breakfast from the kitchen table, sensing that Zoeya isn’t going to move into the kitchen from the couch. She also grabs a hardboiled egg that’s Ravs’ morning treat. It also distracts him from screaming at the coffee machine when the machine hisses and steams as it’s cooking the beans.

It’s been three months since Ravs moved in with them; he’s quite a sweet rooster, hardly aggressive save to few of his obvious triggers (chicken predators, other hotblooded roosters, complete strangers and strange events/things) and an effective watchdog, er, rooster. He’s proving to be remarkably intelligent as well; Zoeya wants to train him to use a newly installed automatic flap instead of relying on pecking on the door and waiting to be let in and out.

Lomadia’s dropping by in a week to give him a health check, and the necessary microchipping since he always runs and successfully hides from the local vet. Rythian’s also tagging along with her as well, with Nilesy and Lalnable. A few others are pending, like Nanosounds;  _ The Blackrock _ is busy.

Saberial peels the egg, discarding the bits of shell. Zoeya takes it from her once it’s naked, serving it on a wide plate for Ravs. She sets it down by him. Ravs attacks it with gusto, devouring it with a flurry of pecks. The coffee machine steams, whistling; Ravs ignores it, fully intent on eating his egg.

“Ravs sent a package to you. Er, the other Ravs.” Saberial digistructs and hands Zoeya the hefty, heavily taped box. If she didn’t wait to give her the bulging package, Zoeya would have forgotten to eat.

Zoeya’s eyes widen. She drops her fork and takes it, her fingers picking out the seams in the tape. Saberial sighs after a few seconds of watching her struggle, pulling out a combat knife. It slices through the tape. The box’s flaps spring free, letting both of them peer at the contents within.

“Ooooh, he sent us chocolates and biscuits!” Zoeya sticks her hand in, retrieving at least five Dionysian branded packets. They crackle. “He said he would! I haven’t had these in years.” She rips open one to sample it, munching.

“Goodness, he really spoils us.” Saberial reaches in as well to plunder the depths of the box. More treats and snacks, a few (bioapproved) cuttings of plants that Zoeya wanted to try growing in her newly finished greenhouse, bubble wrapped bottles of wine and booze, books for the pair, letters from their friends, and lastly, a mystery buried at the very bottom.

Zoeya wriggles it free. It’s light, but not so light as to be weightless, and incredibly soft when she pats it. “Did he send you a kilt?”

“I joked about wanting one, but I wonder if he took it seriously after I won our last arm wrestling match.” Saberial checks the packet for any writing, or a note of some kind. It’s unusual of Ravs to not send a letter of his own, so she guesses that he assumes that his package speaks for itself.

Zoeya borrows her knife to cut the string tying the paper together. She parts the padding layers of wrapping paper beneath, revealing a folded tartan piece of fabric. She lifts it up into the air. It’s a tartan shawl, large enough to cover the couch, handmade and weighty like a throw blanket. Her automatic move is to wrap it around herself.

“It’s so warm.” She snuggles into the couch wearing it, melting at how nice it feels. “Smells like wool.”

Saberial stokes her palm over the cloth. “This must have been a lot of work, or it cost a lot.”

“Where do you want to keep it? The bed, or the couch?”

“Couch. We already have five blankets upstairs.”

“Good plan. We can use it while we watch movies.” Zoeya takes it off, folding it badly and leaving it in a small pile by her side. Saberial helps herself to the open packet of biscuits. Ravs wanders past, peering at all the goods sprawled out on the coffee table. He has egg remains smeared on his beak that he hasn’t wiped off onto the carpet yet.

“Morning, Ravs.” Zoeya can now say his name with a straight face. She pats her lap; Ravs flaps up, willing to cuddle briefly. Instead, he steps off her after the cuddle and onto the shawl, settling onto it like a cat.

Saberial and Zoeya stare at him. “That’s not yours,” Saberial says, reaching for him. He doesn’t budge, his eyes sliding shut in contentment. Saberial sticks her hand underneath him, lifting him up so that his legs dangle in the air. He gives a disgruntled cluck as she slides the shawl free. It’s moved to Saberial’s side. 

Ravs stands, stepping over the both of them to promptly sit back down onto the shawl. After Saberial lifts him, Zoeya moves the shawl onto the coffee table. With a little hop, Ravs follows it, looking annoyed at having to move so soon for the second time. He hangs onto it with his beak when Saberial tries to take it away.

“He’s not going broody, is he?” Zoeya asks, being very unhelpful and grinning.

“I don’t think so, he’s just being a dick about things that don’t belong to him. Come on, you’re not a cat or a dog, so give it up!” Saberial grumbles as she plays tug of war with the shawl. Ravs eventually lets go, moving back to Zoeya’s lap in obvious revenge. Saberial sticks the shawl in a cupboard so he can’t get to it.

Zoeya laughs. “Let’s just message Ravs for another, smaller one. I don’t think he’ll mind once we explain what we want it for.”

Ravs sends another, smaller shawl in good humour; he also claims that this one is waterproof, and chickenproof as well. It goes into Ravs’ little coop house; Saberial washes it every couple of days so it doesn’t wear down, despite Ravs’ assurances that it can withstand a possessive, moody rooster. 

He also sent a miniature tartan cape (complete with fasteners and a tiny hood) that his rooster counterpart can wear in the snow, rain and cold. Apparently, Parvis couldn’t stop giggling while tailoring it once he heard who it was for. Saberial and Zoeya send Parvis a few packs of the fabled Dionysian biscuits as thanks for his hard work.

\--

Saberial is always hesitant to leave Zoeya at home on her own, even if there’s people nearby to help her. By having Ravs be her loyal companion, Saberial worries less when she spends a few days away from home dealing with the sticky business of having to keep tabs on Panda and play the intervener between her younger sibling and their family.

She doesn’t know what Panda’s up to, avoiding home. Their mother’s still waiting for Panda. She’s more worried than pissed at this point; it’s not unusual for Panda to strike off on their own when they’re conflicted, or upset. She knows Panda isn’t upset though, making up for lost time with Teep rather than shooting them in the back and claiming that hefty bounty.

Panda doesn’t give her straight answers about remaining as a bounty hunter whenever she asks. Teep is also cryptic about it; Saberial gives up on asking the two for insights, but succeeds in wrangling a future, tentative visit from them (kept secret from mum, obviously).

Her next job at the homestead is to help set up a garden. Zoeya’s blessed with the green thumb, not her. Zoeya wants a miniature plot with herbs and vegetables that the local grocery store doesn’t stock. Arsenal is always happy to take orders, with the warning that it could take weeks to arrive once he places them.

That’s fine by the two; they have a while to experiment with setting up their personal garden. Money’s trickling in slowly, from Zoeya’s books, the few mercenary jobs that Saberial still accepts to boost their income and the farm’s growing sales of local, freshly grown and sourced goods.

The chickens are free range in the day when the weather’s pleasant, pending rain, fog and snow. Ravs the rooster is free range no matter what; he’s proven to be a hardy bird, roaming freely if left alone. The farmhands note that he’s a frequent sight around the other coops, always staying clear of the other roosters.

Amusingly, they keep finding him brooding a nest full of peeping chicks as the mother hen steps away to eat, drink, rest and dust bathe. Ravs always sneaks off before the other roosters discovers him; how he manages to sweet talk his way into chicksitting is an eternal mystery. Zoeya thinks it’s his innate charm, and how it’s cute that he’s co-parenting chicks that aren’t his.

Saberial tries her hand at carpentry, erecting a sturdy, high wooden and wire fence that reaches her shoulders. She’s proud of it; nothing could possibly breach it. Zoeya celebrates by having a movie night once they’ve moved all the new plants in. Gardening’s a waiting game once the prep work is finished.

Ravs is supposed to be sleeping in his coop when the sun sets. Once Zoeya installed his chicken door though, he’s become a part indoors chicken. 

Lomadia dropped by to give him the long awaited checkup a few weeks ago, and to microchip him for the door. Catching him was an enormous feat of everyone’s wits and speed. He kept running away and hiding; his ability to launch himself a couple of metres high didn’t help once he got into the stables. 

After two hours of this nonsense and everyone (even Zoeya) sweating and cursing, Nilesy eventually baited him with the famous tartan shawl stolen from his coop; he tore after Nilesy, who led him right into Lomadia’s gloved hands. 

He stopped screaming on the coffee table once Lomadia fed him a bunch of dried worms that he crunched on for cooperating. Ravs was in perfect health; the microchopping took less than a minute once she swabbed the site with general anesthesia and clamped the tool’s pincers down, letting the microneedles do their work.

Lomadia pronounced the job done, letting him go. Ravs ruffled his feathers, groggily hopping off the table and fleeing to Zoeya’s lap, having his traditional sulk after being manhandled so roughly. Nilesy observed that he’s just like his namesake in more ways than everyone thought.

Ravs’ lack of crowing doesn’t bother Zoeya and Saberial as much anymore; Lomadia stressed that Ravs is still adjusting to them, and that he’ll crow in his own time.

“Maybe he doesn’t want to compete with the other roosters in the morning?” Lomadia shrugged. “Be patient. Who knows what he’s thinking?”

Sadly, Nilesy and Lomadia couldn’t stay for more than a week, but they did help with the farm. Lomadia’s services as a vet saved Zoeya and Saberial quite a bit. Nilesy haggled stock and new tools from the local stores (and he bought one kitten too, in the process, that Ravs avoided when they tried to grab his tail and play with it).

There’s a soft chime when Ravs sticks his head inside before the rest of him follows. He’s careful about not getting his tail feathers stuck as the door closes; he might not be vain but he’s clearly protective of his precious, lustrous tail.

Tonight, he ends up perched on Zoeya’s legs, enjoying the movie alongside his owners. He tends to doze off; Saberial moves him back to his coop once he’s asleep, which he doesn’t mind. He’s not that heavy to begin with, and Saberial appreciates getting to stretch her legs as Zoeya cleans up before bedtime.

They both have to keep him away from the food since Zoeya slips him table scraps (like the rare scrambled egg, leftover greens, a spoonful of mashed potatoes), so he likes to try and sample whatever his favourite humans are eating. 

The movie is long winded, based on one of Rythian’s pulp fiction novels; Saberial spent the day wrangling hay since one of the farmhands got downed by a cold. She’s feeling it, the scratchiness at the back of her throat creeping up on her. She knocks over the bag of marshmallows reaching for the tartan shawl to cover herself up. Loose marshmallows tumble across the couch.

Ravs’ head whips around. Saberial grunts as Zoeya lunges for the upturned bag, elbowing her in the abdomen as she tries to valiantly sweep up the scattered marshmallows. Ravs’ head ducks, dipping upwards. In his beak, he triumphantly clutches a marshmallow, flapping off Zoeya’s legs to escape.

Zoeya dives after him, throwing off the shawl. “Ravs! No! Bad!”

Saberial sits back and relaxes, sneezing. It’s not her turn to deal with Ravs for once. Ravs ducks underneath the table. Zoeya sticks her hand after him, trying to get him to drop the tidbit. He emerges from the other end, racing towards the kitchen, still with marshmallow. Zoeya follows. He returns to the living room at full speed, pausing briefly to consider his options. Saberial watches as he wriggles underneath the couch. Zoeya arrives, panting. 

“Where is he?” She has a wild look in her eyes, similar to the one she had on Pandora once she’s decided to chase after her chosen specimens, no matter what gets in her way.

Saberial shrugs, picking up all the loose butter popcorn before Ravs too, can get to it. Zoeya spies a bunch of tail feathers sticking out from underneath the corner of the couch. She crouches. Slowly, she extends her hands, holding her breath as well. There’s a surprised squawk. She holds up Ravs between her palms. Ravs is in the middle of unsuccessfully tearing the marshmallow apart; the marshmallow is too spongy and tough for his beak. 

She tugs it from his beak, chastising him. “No more marshmallows for you!”

Saberial borrows a page from Panda’s book. “You gonna eat that?” She points to the dusty, squished marshmallow in her hand.

“What, this? Saberial, ew, no!” Zoeya tosses it into the bin. The bin accepts it, the lid sliding open to admit it; Ravs watches it with a rueful air. Zoeya puts him back down so she can sit back onto the couch, exhausted after everything. He joins her, now eyeing the remaining popcorn out of the corner of his eye.

\--

The garden is coming along splendidly; plants are sprouting edible bits and flowers, and the mechanized bees are plentiful, humming as they pollinate and gather. The robotic bees smartly stay out of bird pecking range, ducking and weaving amongst the cover of leaves. Saberial congratulates Nilesy for making such a smart and useful purchase on their behalf. They should get Xephos and Pyrionflax to look at the hive’s coding at some point.

Saberial checks on the garden when time allows her; it’s mostly automated now. Everything runs according to the timers and sensors. Zoeya’s testing prototypes from her university, and is curious about the results.

The cameras record a time lapse every hour. Saberial checks those when she can’t physically step into the garden. Today is like any other day; she scrolls through the morning’s time lapses as she makes lunch. Zoeya’s off to collect eggs and discuss how the farm is going with the farmhands (who can’t help adoring her endless enthusiasm and dedication to the job). Ravs can’t follow her for obvious reasons. Saberial hasn’t seen him since breakfast.

The tomatoes are huge, roughly the size of her closed fist. They’ll sell well. Saberial zooms on one photo; one plant is missing quite a few from the lower branches. Annoyed, she focuses on that plant. The cameras don’t go any lower, bolted to their railings that not even a hurricane could wrench them off.

Nothing is the obvious cause. The bees can’t damage the tomatoes to such an extent, and it looks like something’s been ripping the tomatoes off and dropping them to the ground.

Saberial leaves the house to investigate, clumping along the dirt path in her gardening boots. She opens the fence, closing the gate behind her. Nothing is amiss in the first half of the garden.

That is, until she finds Ravs in loaf mode beneath said plant, happily helping himself to the insides of several demolished tomatoes. His beak is sticky with red flesh and seeds.

“Ravs!” Saberial shouts, incensed that he’d be so forthright in his claim to several hapless tomatoes.

He startles, fleeing the scene of the crime by springboarding off a supply crate and over the top of the fence. He’s gone from the scene of the crime by the time Saberial arrives on the other side, panting.

Zoeya laughs to the point of tears when Saberial explains how the tomatoes got damaged. Zoeya handpicks a few choice tomatoes just for Ravs to eat at his leisure; he enjoys them, and doesn’t venture back into the garden unless supervised.

\--

Zoeya and Saberial wait until winter passes before penciling in a trip to the beach. It’s spring, so the farm grows even busier. Saberial accepts fewer jobs than before, trying to widen the gap between her mercenary life and her domestic one. 

She shoulders a few of Zoeya’s burdens; Zoeya’s deadlines to finish editing her collaborations with her colleagues is fast approaching, and Zoeya spends late nights talking via ECHO to her grad students and fellow professors. She never complains about the cup of hot chocolate Saberial leaves by her side. 

Ravs dozes on her lap, keeping her company as Saberial sleeps. He spends so much time indoors that his diapers are digistructed by the chicken front door flap, and removed once he’s left the house (provided he exits via the same flap and not with a quick, easy hop out of an open window). Zoeya appreciates how attached he is to her and Saberial.

All their hard work pays off; they have a single day to themselves. The spring rains have taken leave, the sky a cool blue compared to the miserable greys clouding the area for two weeks in a row.

“Car packed? Picnic basket full? Blanket accounted for? Umbrella folded?” Zoeya marks off the list as Saberial zooms between house and car, throwing things into the back. Saberial passes Ravs’ coop. He’s napping for the afternoon. 

Already in the front seat, Zoeya fiddles with the radio, trying to get it to land on the local one. Impatient and fidgeting, she rolls down the window to stick her head out.

Saberial finally climbs into the front seat, sighing. “I think I got everything.”

“You forgot to give me a morning kiss,” Zoeya teases, winking like Ravs does. 

Saberial rolls her eyes at this blatant lie, but gives her a free one. She clicks her seatbelt into place, her fingers curling over and around the steering wheel. The car starts up, revving into life.

“To the beach!”

Twenty minutes later, Zoeya and Saberial double back. The farmhands anxiously await the two at the house; Ravs is perched atop the roof of his coop, screaming at the top of his lungs, head raised to the sky. Zoeya rushes to the fence. He immediately stops screaming, flapping down to meet her. She scoops him up, inspecting him closely. He clucks rapidly, submitting to the check with hardly a blink.

“Now what?” Saberial eyes Ravs, annoyed.

“He’s healthy, and I don’t see any blood. Okay, back you go!” Zoeya sets him back down and moves to leave. With an affronted look directed at her, he flaps onto the roof and opens his beak to scream again. “Oh, Ravs!” Zoeya quickly grabs him, shushing him by shoving a handful of scratch under his beak. He pecks at it, sulkily. The farmhands watch from afar.

“I think he wants to come with us.” Saberial concludes, admiring Zoeya’s patience and her magic materialisation of the emergency scratch. Ravs usually stayed with Zoeya at home. “Zoeya, he thinks we’re his flock!” She wants to smack her head into the car door; no wonder why he reacted so badly to the  _ both _ of them leaving, concluding that they’re abandoning him.

“Can we take him with us to the beach? We obviously can’t just leave him here!” Zoeya scratches his head. Ravs clucks at her, softly, this time.

“Well, we took him home with us the first time,” Saberial dryly says, feeling a little bit of Teep’s sense of humour rubbing off of her. “Fine.”

“He can sit with me, but you have to drive carefully!” Zoeya disperses the farmhands, who are amused and relieved that situation’s resolved. Zoeya climbs back into the car with Saberial.

With a bit of prodding and gentle handling, Zoeya tugs a spare chicken diaper into place. Ravs doesn’t complain, holding perfectly still, like he knows that if he’s good, he’ll get to stay. She positions Ravs on her lap, using a cardboard box to bring him up to window height. Saberial starts the car, watching him for an adverse reaction. Ravs blinks, staring at the dashboard and dials before turning his head to peer at the farm outside.

Satisfied that he’s not screaming, Saberial puts the car into gear and returns to the main road. Zoeya keeps both hands on him, gently keeping his wings pinned so he doesn’t launch himself anywhere dangerous. Ravs is riveted by the sight of the world zooming past, as well behaved as a trained skag. Zoeya relaxes, taking her hands away. 

“Do chickens get motion sickness?” Zoeya asks out loud.

“I think if they got motion sickness, they wouldn’t be able to move their heads while running,” Saberial thoughtfully answers. “Or do anything, really.”

“What if we tried to strap a camera to Ravs at some point?” Zoeya gets a glint in her eyes, peering at Ravs with a researcher’s hunger. Ravs doesn’t budge, still peering out the window. He clucks excitedly, waggling his tail feathers.

The drive is pleasant, and the sun forces Saberial to crank up the air conditioning to the max. Ravs burbles his confused, gargling sound, turning to face the dashboard. His hackles rise, then fall, as he closes his eyes, appearing to enjoy the breeze sweeping over him.

Zoeya looks like she’s about to laugh at how content he is, holding it in by biting her cheek. Her cheeks puff up though. Saberial snaps a quick picture from her HUD (thanks, Pyrionflax, for that handy modification).

“Look, look, it’s the ocean!” Zoeya and Ravs press against the window at the same time. “And the beach!”

Mood lifting, Saberial pulls into the carpark, and then curses. Zoeya and Ravs continue to admire the ocean and the beach while Saberial has the hassle of looking for a place to park. 

Twenty minutes later and dressed in a wet suit, Saberial is wriggling her bare toes on the sand. She’s only been to the beach a handful of times, and this is her first with Zoeya (and Ravs). 

“Come on, we don’t have all day to stand around!” She turns to Zoeya, who’s been fussing around in the back of the car for the past five minutes.

“Coming! I just had to get this little man ready! Look at him!” Zoeya presents Ravs, who’s standing in the back. He’s sporting tiny sunglasses, a sun visor that stays on in spite of his comb and a palm frond patterned shirt. Ravs hops down, investigating his new surroundings with much interest, clucking softly.

“Babe, do you just carry chicken sized accessories with you everywhere you go now?” Saberial watches Ravs trot across the sidewalk towards her, receiving many a delighted and confused look from fellow beachgoers.

“Well, it always pays to be prepared! And pose!” Zoeya strikes a pose. Ravs copies her, raising one leg and holding his head up high, his back straight. Saberial grabs another photo, grinning.

“You taught him how to pose!” Just when Ravs couldn’t get any more ridiculous, he proves her wrong.

“He’s a very smart chicken,” Zoeya says with pride.

Ravs drops the pose, following her. Zoeya’s changed into a one piece retro print swimsuit, having tied a towel around her waist. It took her an hour to pick out one she liked; Saberial didn’t mind watching her try out multiple sets. Plus, she looks super cute no matter what.

Ravs pauses at the edge where sand meets concrete. Saberial hefts the umbrella and picnic basket up her shoulder as Zoeya turns to him. 

“What’s the matter?” He leans down to grab a beakful of sand, tasting it. He spits it out, shaking his head like he regrets the move. “That’s right, sand is bad to eat.”

People point and gasp when they see the two heading down the path with a chicken in tow. Saberial and Zoeya pick a place, setting down the towels and the umbrella. Ravs settles between the picnic basket and the bags. He clucks when Zoeya asks him to watch their spot as she sets out bowls of food, scratch and water for him.

Saberial has her misgivings but ultimately decides that if Ravs can watch over two flocks that aren’t his, the farm and the house, he’s good with their stuff. She and Zoeya rush off to the water to have some fun.

Ravs stretches his leg, one at a time. The people around him are still amused by his presence. He ignores them, focusing on keeping a sharp watch on the bags next to him. Yawning, he smacks his beak a few times, still tasting the aftermath of sand particles. After a few minutes of nothing happening, he squats into a comfortable loaf.

A couple of pickpockets weave their way through the crowd. They spot a lucky break; an abandoned beach towel with bags, an umbrella and a basket. Drawing close, they investigate, loitering to see if the owners will be back the second they make a move. 

One notices that a bag looks like a gaudily dressed chicken, feathered and awfully realistic. It’s even breathing. Dismissing it as the latest fashion trend, they reach for it. The ‘bag’ opens its beak and latches onto the nearest finger, flapping its wings and puffing up.

Screaming, the pickpocket waves their hand around. The chicken stays latched on, kicking out with both feet, their sharp spurs finding their mark to scratch, tear and puncture exposed skin. Shrieking, the injured pickpocket swings their hand down to slam them into the umbrella. Anticipating it, the chicken lets go, flapping their wings to soften their landing. They rebound off the towel, screaming at the top of their lungs.

Reeling, the pickpockets barely have a chance to react before the chicken launches another attack, spurs flying and wings kicking up a miniature sandstorm. The pickpockets flee, running away at full speed.

Ravs wipes his feet on the sand, taking a moment to preen his ruffled feathers. Good, he didn’t lose his precious hat or sunglasses in the attack; Zoeya tied them all on very securely. Onlookers gawk at him. He settles back down, eyeing them all with suspicion before taking a sip from his water bowl. Watching the bags is thirsty work!

Saberial drags Zoeya back up the beach by the hand, laughing and coughing, dripping wet. Zoeya wanted to go out further to try photograph some reefs, but the safety nets wouldn’t let her.

Ravs rises, striking a pose on his own as if to say ‘did I do a good job?’ 

“Did something happen?” Zoeya pauses at the edge of the towel, tilting her head.

Saberial sniffs the air. “I can smell blood. Man, where’s Panda when I need them?”

Zoeya picks up Ravs to inspect him. “Did you accidentally hit something?” She checks his spurs, pulling out a tissue to wipe them off. 

Ravs continues to emit an air of pride even as he’s put down. Saberial throws a glance at the people around them. “Hey, did anything happen while we were gone?”

A person opens their mouth, then closes it. It’s hard to describe a fight between two pickpockets and a chicken, especially when the chicken won. “Couple of dudes skulked around looking at your stuff, but your chicken gave them the stink eye and they wandered off.”

“They still around?” Saberial crushes a fist against her palm.

“Nah, they’re long gone. Your lil chicken’s a good watcher.”

“See, Ravs is perfect!” Zoeya chirps. “Want a sandwich?”

Ravs is awarded some of her bread and cheese for being a good boy. Zoeya and Saberial enjoy their picnic while drying out. Ravs wanders off to explore, attracting further bemused looks from passerbys (especially kids). He struts along the water’s edge, steering clear of all waves.

He ends up on the fisher’s boardwalk. A couple sitting on a bench share a newspaper bouquet of fish and chips. A few seagulls drift overhead, on the lookout for scraps. The couple curses as a crumbed fish topples onto the boards.

Ravs lunges for it as a seagull dives, a second later. Befitting his small size and speed, Ravs reaches it first. He snatches it up, launching himself under the bench as the seagull shrieks in indignation as it slams into the screaming couple’s legs, calling for backup.

Ravs streaks back down the beach, clutching his stolen prize tightly in his beak, legs pumping and kicking up sand in his wake. His audience gawks at the growing horde of seagulls behind him. Ravs ducks under legs, around toys, leaping over prone people, flapping his wings to stay steady as he homes in on his destination.

Zoeya pauses in taking a bite of her sandwich, turning her gaze towards the boardwalk. “Hey, Saberial?”

“Mmm? I’m enjoying my peanut butter popsicle.” Saberial swallows, not lifting her head from her treat.

“That’s a lot of seagulls.” Zoeya points. “There’s so many!”

“So long as they’re not stealing our food, what’s the problem?” Saberial dismisses, cracking open a canned lemonade to chug it.

“They’re chasing after something!” Zoeya is on her knees, digistrucing her trusty binoculars.

Saberial crushes her empty can, rolling her eyes. “Someone probably dropped their fish and chips.”

“Nope,” Zoeya corrects, standing up. People are beginning to notice the commotion. “They’re all headed this way!”

“Let me see,” Saberial demands. Zoeya hands over her binoculars. Saberial peers down them, her mouth dropping. “Is that  _ Ravs?” _

“It is!” Zoeya shouts. “He’s headed this way!”

Saberial curses, handing back the binoculars. “If they get a hold of him, he can say goodbye to those pretty tail feathers of his.”

“We have to help!”

“Babe, I’m not fond of being attacked by seagulls on my day off.” Saberial wonders if it’s against the law to use a gun on seagulls.

“We don’t have to shoot them,” Zoeya patiently says. “We just gotta outsmart them!” She glances at the picnic basket by her feet, an idea forming in her head.

Saberial groans. “You’re buying the next round of food on the way back.”

“I’ll do anything for Ravs,” Zoeya says with complete seriousness.

Ravs would like to take a deep breath; he’s not sure if he can keep running, losing ground to the seagulls on his tail. The fish slaps against his shirt, leaving smears of oil and scattering loose crumbs to the wind. He knows he’s close, following his hunch.

Someone shouts. He perks up, zooming towards the familiar voice. Zoeya! The sight of her invigorates him. He pours on speed. She gestures to the open, empty picnic basket tipped on its side. Ravs dives in.

Zoeya quickly rights it, slamming the lid down. “Saberial, now!”

With a grunt, Saberial hurls their lunch into the air like it’s a grenade, towards the water. The seagulls can’t ignore a free feast dropping out of the sky in front of them, changing targets. Much squawking and splashing means success.

Saberial sighs, mourning the homemade goods. Zoeya peeks into the basket, lifting the lid to peek in at the lone occupant concealed within. Ravs is tearing into the barely warm, crumbed fish with gusto, despite panting between bites.

“I think it’s time to go home,” She whispers to him, smiling.

“But not before ice cream,” Saberial grumbles, giving Ravs a half hearted glare. Ravs exudes an air of contentment in spite of the ills radiating towards him.

\--

Back on the frigate, Zoeya bought a digistruct printer via Pyrionflax and Xephos. Rather, she’d let the two pick for her, being the self proclaimed experts with technology. Technology is her best enemy and the worst friend at times.

She takes it with her when she moves homes. Being on the frigate is nice and all with her friends being so close at hand, but her real heart belongs to the planets she chooses to dwell on. This farm is her new home now, and the next chapter of her life. Saberial’s a part of it now.

Zoeya can neatly divide her life up into pre-Saberial and with Saberial. She adores Saberial so much, even if she pushes her buttons far too many times but Saberial’s quick to forgive (maybe due to putting up with Teep and Panda, plus countless other family). They complement each other that way, where Zoeya’s not the type to keep hating from softness, while Saberial grounds hers in hard logic.

She’s figuring out how to print miniature models of Dick and Arden for Arsenal’s birthday when Ravs the rooster trots into the room, carrying an object in his beak. 

She doesn’t notice, carving her model using the gaming mouse Panda gave her. It’s second hand, but lacking the colour changing mod Panda installed. It broke when Panda accidentally knocked it off their console and hasn’t been the same since, but it still works. It has less gunk inside than Zoeya’s field one (which finally croaked after another mud puddle encounter), and allows the finer movements Zoeya needs to get the kraggons’ craggy likenesses perfect.

Ravs pauses by her slippered feet, carefully dropping the object by her. The light thud makes her blink, peering down at him. He wanders in and out of the house during the day; Zoeya ponders the idea of strapping a miniature camera to him to see what chicken business he gets into. That’s an idea for another time.

“What’s up, Ravs?” Zoeya glances when he clucks-tuts at her, his body bristling with attention. “That’s my rubber shoe! What are you doing with it?” Her shoes have the cutest little red and white mushrooms stamped all over them.

Saberial bought these for her, intending them for the beach trip. Zoeya forgot to bring them then (see, the two of them did forget something despite their checklist), so now she wears them around outside when she’s too lazy to pull on proper shoes. They’re one of the top ten fashion abominations according to the ECHOnet but the ECHOnet wouldn’t know what’s practical even if it hit them square in the face like a plastic torpedo.

Ravs keeps watching her, his feet braced against the carpet. Zoeya scratches her head. It’s a puzzle when it comes to Ravs’ wants. Chickens can’t speak but if they would, that’d be helpful.

“You want a pair of shoes like these?” Zoeya tests, as a joke. To her surprise, he lets out a series of enthusiastic clucks. “You sure?” Ravs continues his clucking, bobbing his head up and down.

Zoeya glances back to her monitor. Arsenal’s birthday is months away, and she’s still learning how to model. Surely this side project couldn’t hurt…

A few days later, Saberial’s giving a tour of the farm to the local school. The farm’s grown, and is gaining a reputation with the closest towns. The kids stick to one another, holding hands and agog at every sight they see. Saberial is minding such a well behaved lot today (a few troublemakers from the last school got kicked by Ravs for poking some poor hens with sticks) that she takes them to see the chicken farm up close.

The resident chickens know her, and the routine. So long as they stay out of her way, she won’t cause trouble, trusting her to manage her own flock of kids. The kids peer into the nestboxes Saberial opens. It’s dangerous to let the kids loose into the actual barns, but nobody’s ever complained about seeing the broody shed.

“This is where the hens go to sit on eggs! These eggs become chicks, and the chicks get looked after by us and their mums until they’re old enough to join the other chickens!” Saberial nudges a broody hen off her nest, causing her to emit a low, annoyed hiss.

Kids crane their heads. They ‘ooohh’ at the clutch of eggs underneath the hen. Once the gawking’s easing off, Saberial leaves her be, closing the lid of the nestbox. 

“Who wants to collect eggs with me now?” Saberial brightly asks. “You can keep those, but be careful not to drop them!”

A forest of excited hands rise into the air. Saberial leads them around the broody shed, towards the egg collectors. These are pipes leading from the nestboxes in the actual barns. It’s an ingenious system, no mess, no fuss aside from the weekly cleaning. 

Saberial looks up, performing a head count. She’s lost a few kids. She finds them standing by the gate, pointing and giggling at the yard. Saberial peers over the top of the gate. 

“What’re you lot giggling at?”

“That chicken’s wearing shoes, miss!” A child points, helpfully.

“That would be Ravs the rooster, who appears to be…” Saberial squints. “Ah yes, wearing a very chic pair of shoes.” Said rooster is proudly strutting across the yard in chicken sized rubber shoes stamped with tartan print.

“Why’s he wearing shoes?” Another child asks.

“He likes to be contrary,” is Saberial’s dry response.

“What’s ‘contrary’, miss?”

\--

Rythian drops the lone package onto Ravs’ bed. Ravs sits up, already curious. “Present from Zoeya,” Rythian informs him.

“Did she run out of biscuits already?” Ravs’ fingers are already curling around the package, his nails making short work of the tape.

“What’d she send you?” Rythian stickybeaks, peering over his shoulder.

“Why, tartan print rubber shoes!” Ravs takes the shoes out, laying them on his sheets so that they catch the light. “Just my size too!”

Rythian takes one look at them and frowns. “Hm...no, I’m getting rid of them,” He decides, reaching for them.

Ravs puts his hand on his hand, pushing it downwards and away. “No, they’re not yours to destroy!”

“They’re hideous!” Rythian struggles against Ravs’ other hand pinning his free hand down so he can’t teleport the shoes somewhere else, like into the bin.

“You can’t, I already love them!” Ravs insists, giving Rythian a sad look. “I swear on my ma’s grave that I’ll never wear them in front of you.”

Rythian gives up on breaking free, sighing. “Don’t swear on her grave!”

“Can I keep them?” Ravs keeps looking sad, relying on the persuasive power of his puppy eyes to change Rythian’s mind.

“Fine, but if I really do catch you wearing them, they’re going out the airlock.” Rythian sighs at how easily manipulated he is by Ravs’ puppy eyed look.

\--

Rythian’s never stayed at a proper farm before. He’s seen skag farms but always from a safe distance; skags might be encased in shielded enclosures, but they’re still skags by nature. Skag farmers didn’t seem to be into the whole agriculture business anyway, based on the lack of fields on their properties. 

Thus, Rythian’s pleasantly surprised by the presence of a thriving host of fields awash in vegetables and fruits, plus several pens of grazing animals scattered here and there. From a rakk’s eye view, it’s calming. It’s Zoeya’s farm though. Out of habit, Rythian prepares himself, both mentally and physically.

Next to him, Zylus flicks a page of his paperback. He’s borrowing it from Rythian’s personal collection. Daltos grouchily watches the window, yawning. He sat as far away as possible from Zylus, though Zylus doesn’t appear to have noticed. Rythian entertains the thought that he might be jealous that Zylus is paying more attention to the novel than him.

Lomadia tends to her mystery egg resting in its hibernation capsule. There’s bets placed on when she’ll let it hatch and what it is; Lomadia is cryptic about all inquiries. Not even Nilesy knows, and he’s her closest confidant.

Arsenal drops the group at the gates, Dick and Arden burfing their own versions of goodbye. “Have fun, daddy! Don’t break any beds while you’re on holiday!”

Daltos ignores him, climbing out first so he doesn’t have to look at him. Zylus puts away his book, following. Rythian teleports through the wall, stretching once he’s breathing in the fresh scent of country air suffused with dust, a faint whiff of animal, and the sweetness of ripening orchard fruits. This might not be so bad.

Zoeya slams into him five seconds later. Rythian gasps, maintaining his balance by doubling over. “Zoeya!” He knows it’s her because she’s squealing his name into his side.

“Rythian! It’s you, you finally came down to see us, how are you, how’s Junior, how’s everyone doing–“ Zoeya peers into his eyes, her face pressed so close to his that he can see every freckle on her nose and cheeks.

“I’m fine, just busy, Junior’s doing well, and I don’t know, it’d take me too long to tell you,” Rythian answers. 

Saberial pries her girlfriend off. Rythian shoots her a grateful look for restraining Zoeya. “Calm down, let everyone walk around a bit and get some blood back into their legs.”

Nilesy’s leaning against a fence post, fending off the jellification of said legs. “Hey, you’re growing apples now!”

“We’re definitely getting a bumper crop this year!” Saberial leans over to show off a fruit hanging from a branch by Lomadia’s shoulder. “Look at it, we’re definitely gonna get some great jam from this.”

“Could you please send us some jam?” Lomadia puts her hand up. “I’m sick of butter.”

“Of course!” Zoeya claps her hands together. “We’ll always send you a share of the loot!”

“Excellent. I knew I became friends with you for a reason,” Lomadia says, smiling.

“Oh, you!” Zoeya pushes her. “Maybe I should pay you in just jam!”

“You can’t just pay me entirely in jam to have a look at all your animals!” Lomadia laughs, pushing her back. She pauses, glancing at the gate. “And where’s your faithful companion?”

Zoeya glances back at the open gate. Whoever or whatever it is that she spots, she gestures by clapping her hands onto her thighs. “Oh, he’s shy all of the sudden! He’s never met so many people before, well, except the farmhands, but that doesn’t count because they laughed at him. Come here!”

A chicken inquisitively peeks at the outsiders from beneath a tree’s roots. 

“Come on, Ravs!” Saberial summons, whistling.

The chicken sidles towards the two, giving off the mulish air of a child that doesn’t want to meet their parents’ friends but is being forced to. The chicken stops a few metres away. It’s the smallest chicken any of them have ever met, barely reaching Zoeya’s knees. Ravs still manages to exude a relaxed pride, head turning to take in this new lot of people.

Rythian raises an eyebrow at Zylus. Zylus shrugs, trying not to obviously grin. Daltos stares down Ravs. The corner of his mouth twitches. Lomadia and Nilesy seem used to it though.

Nilesy crouches. “Ravs! It’s me!” He holds both hands out.

Ravs the rooster utters a shrill scream, and dives at him. Without flinching, Nilesy scoops him up, hoisting him into a two handed carry, close to his chest. Ravs clucks happily, ceasing his screaming. Nilesy walks down the path, beginning a one-sided chat.

“He likes to be carried,” Zoeya explains. “He’s figured out that he’s allowed to be a lazy bum. Come on, we can’t stand around here all day! I’ll show you around!”

“Aren’t you going to explain why you named a chicken after my boyfriend?” Rythian asks as she holds the gate open.

“She thought the other Ravs would like it,” Saberial dryly says. “Unfortunately, he’s living up to his namesake.”

“How so?” Rythian can’t imagine an animal taking after Ravs in any way. Well, there’s one, but that’s not the kind of thing anybody likes to voluntarily think about.

“You’ll see,” Saberial says, winking at him. Zoeya goes off to attend to a few workers waving at her from a paddock.

“How’s he enjoying his new door?” Lomadia inquires, munching on an apple Saberial tosses at her.

“He loves it! It didn’t take him too long to figure out that he can open it on his own.” Saberial realises that Rythian is looking confused. “Ravs didn’t want to be microchipped, but we got him in the end, and Zoeya trained him to use an automatic flap to get in and out of the house. He wouldn’t stop knocking or screaming whenever he wanted in or out, that’s why.”

“Isn’t that what you train skags and dogs to do?” Zylus asks.

“Ravs is a very special chicken,” Saberial explains. “The farmer we bought him from warned us that he’s a handful, but Zoeya couldn’t resist his charms.”

“He must be some chicken,” Daltos notes. “Does Ravs know?”

“Zoeya keeps a daily log just for him. He loves himself too much,” Saberial says, chuckling. “This here’s our house!”

“Do you have enough guest rooms?” Lomadia asks. “There’s an extra three people visiting this time.”

“We thought of that when we had the house constructed, so there’s plenty of room, even if you decide not to share!” Saberial points to the front door’s flap. “This is the door we had installed for Ravs. We can lock it, but he hates that.”

“What does he do if it’s locked?” Rythian asks.

“The usual. Stands and screams until one of us opens it for him.”

“Does yours do that?” Zylus asks Rythian while grinning.

Rythian snorts. “Of course he does, if he thinks I’ve skipped meals and he wants me to eat.”

The others laugh, wiping all their boots on the welcome mat. Rythian pauses at the tinier welcome mat beside it. Shaking his head, he steps into the farm house.

Saberial takes them on a brief tour. Zylus and Daltos decide to share a room (to nobody’s surprise, and Daltos swears that he won’t do anything ‘untoward’ Zylus, which earns him a light smack to the back). Lomadia and Nilesy pick individual rooms. Everyone splits off to unpack.

Saberial gives Rythian the last available room. “Sorry, forgot we haven’t gotten the rest of the furniture in yet.” She leads him to said room. It’s the furthest one on the landing.

“Why is there an automatic flap in my door?” Rythian points out when it seems that nobody’s noticed it as well.

“This was going to be Zoeya’s office, but she changed her mind and switched to ground floor.” Saberial rubs the back of her head, laughing sheepishly. “She put the door there so Ravs could spend time with her while working. Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” Rythian says. He’s a little touched that Zoeya would go to such lengths to accomodate a needy chicken.

“Lunch is in fifteen minutes! We’re all pitching in, so get your working hat on before you come downstairs!” Saberial troops back down, boots stomping.

Rythian’s room is painted a soothing blue. His bed is already made, the window open to let in a cool breeze. He’s pleased that it’s a double bed too. He’d envisioned a lonely cot miraculously wedged in amongst columns of paperwork and research samples. The room is also neat, which goes against his original expectations.

He didn’t bring much with him on this trip; Junior would have gone along with him, but anywhere with people involved, Rythian has to decide against bringing them. There’s no shortage of people wanting to babysit, and Junior is in safe hands on  _ The Blackrock. _

Ravs (the human) confiscated his work, insisting that Rythian could use a break. That’s the entire point of this trip, in Ravs’ eyes. Rythian secretly let him pack up all of the study materials, pretending to put up a real fight about it. He’s guilty about deceiving Ravs but his mind’s crafted itself a mental block, tired of exposure to the Queen’s last gift to him.

Rythian randomly picks a paperback from the collection Teep left him, setting it on the nightstand for later. He also brought his sketchbook and pencils, unpacking them too. Ravs allowed him those, but he’s banned from drawing anything Vault related. Like that’ll stop him, but Ravs means well.

Zylus and Daltos are already in the kitchen, helping Saberial prepare sandwiches, not bickering for once. Nilesy’s back, along with Zoeya and Ravs. Lomadia’s in the living room, browsing a field manual on live cow births.

Ravs (the rooster) is safely hiding underneath the kitchen table, both legs tucked underneath him. After a cursory glance, Rythian ignores him, taking on the job of buttering the bread Zoeya slides towards him. He can’t burn anything this way, and Zylus probably reminded her in advance not to entrust him with anything involving heat and food.

“You’re not staying here for free,” Saberial announces as they’re all digging in.

“I thought this is a vacation!” Zylus objects. “Aren’t you supposed to show some appreciation for your captains by letting us sleep in and mooch off you?”

“I’m showing my appreciation by giving you a break from flying,” Saberial elaborates. “You work here, you get to learn something new, and earn your keep.”

“Is this optional?” Daltos asks.

“You won’t be alone. Hat Corp are dropping by in two days to give us a hand with the field and orchard harvesting!” Zoeya adds.

“Did I just hear you say Hat Corp?” Nilesy asks, blinking. “Please tell me I misheard that.”

“They’ve got oodles of experience in operating heavy machinery, according to Trott,” Zoeya says, peeling a hard boiled egg by hand. She slips it beneath the table; Rythian hears pleased clucking, following by an array of pecking noises.

“You sure you trust them?” Lomadia asks, after a beat.

“Well, I trust them more than Parvis’ gang,” Saberial says.

“True,” Nilesy says after a mental comparison. “And if they wreck anything, we can always ask Ravs to step in.”

Upon hearing his name, Ravs clucks, perking up. “Not you, the other Ravs,” Zoeya reassures. He shakes his head, yawning. There’s a brief lull as everyone eats their sandwiches. “Everybody full? Come on, I’ll show you the rest of the farm.”

That evening, Rythian can’t stay holed up in his room; Zoeya drags him into a movie session with the others. Ravs the rooster sits next to him on a cushion by his arm. Zylus and Daltos lost their rounds of rock, paper and scissors, so they get the floor. Nilesy and Lomadia won cushions; Rythian, Saberial and Zoeya get the couch.

Zoeya notices Rythian’s hesitation and nudges him. “He doesn’t bite.”

“Mine usually doesn’t, unless I ask for it,” Rythian whispers back.

Zoeya waggles her eyebrows at him, finishing off with an exaggerated wink, thumbs-up and a nod. “You can pet him, or even scratch his head. He likes that.”

“I’ll have to try that with mine.” Rythian turns to Ravs the rooster. He watches Rythian when Rythian reaches for him, head tilted like he’s deciding on whether or not to scream, move or both. Rythian’s hand carefully settles on his back.

Ravs’ feathers are soft, bristly and clean, his body warm underneath his palm. Rythian still wears his bandages wound all the way up to his elbows from habit, but he’s stopped encasing his fingertips. He attempts to scratch Ravs’ head, right behind his crest. Ravs softly clucks once, eyes sliding shut.

“So, Rythian, enjoying stroking Ravs’ cock up there?” Daltos breaks the silence, managing to keep a straight face. Without saying anything, Zylus delivers a swift elbow jab to his side, causing him to curse as everyone else chokes on their popcorn and drinks.

Rythian hastily retracts his hand, his face rivalling Zylus’ after one of Daltos’ vulgar remarks. Ravs sags slightly where he’s sitting, as if disappointed he stopped.

\--

Helping Zoeya and Saberial around the farm is a good way to pass the time. Rythian wakes at the crack of dawn. He’s the first to wake, next to Zylus, Saberial, Lomadia and Nilesy. It surprises him that Zoeya and Daltos aren’t morning people, Zoeya needing a fifteen minute sleep in before she can rise.

It’s a merciless competition to see who can get the one and only bathroom first in the morning; Rythian wins every time, despite Zylus claiming that teleporting’s cheating. Rythian calls him a sore loser, which Daltos wholly agrees with, causing Zylus to pout.

Mornings are livelier than on the frigate, where he used to keep to himself. This is a routine that he’s letting himself get dragged into. Breakfast is rostered, and wash-up (Rythian being the lone exception, only to help prepare and set up, due to his infamous inability to cook). Nobody minds. It gave ample opportunity to mingle and learn about his fellow human beings.

Nobody skips coffee, except for the chicken. 

The first time Rythian woke up, stole the bathroom (before Zylus could, thus setting into motion all the future calamities), then dragged his sleepy body downstairs and flipped on the coffee machine, Ravs the rooster was already in the kitchen, under the table, completely invisible to Rythian. He promptly screamed when the machine steamed and whistled.

Rythian’s main tactic when surprised: teleport to nearest safe zone. Safe zone: anywhere, or anyone. His random choice of safe zone: Zylus, while Zylus is trying to rouse Daltos from bed by dint of bodily whacking him with a pillow. Consequences of teleporting into said safe zone at the wrong moment: smack Rythian in the face with the pillow as Daltos woke up; miss Daltos reflexively diving out of bed and awkwardly slamming into the wall, Zylus cracking up, then teleport into Nilesy’s room.

Screaming, Nilesy dropped and stepped on his glasses when Rythian landed on his bed. Downstairs, a yawning Lomadia gave Ravs his daily hardboiled egg to shut him up and removed the coffee mug about to overflow. Meanwhile, Rythian horizontally manifested in the bathtub, his hands held to his face.

Zoeya and Saberial returned from an emergency egg run to a house full of amok confusion, much pain and blissful oblivion. It was immediately voted on that Rythian had to be the person to give Ravs his morning egg.

Rythian isn’t bothered by this chore, feeling guilty that it’s kind of his fault that the second day on the farm’s started off as a giant disaster. It took three days for Ravs to catch on that he’s the magical egg giver. Ravs follows Rythian around the kitchen whenever Rythian appears.

“Morning,” Rythian greets. He peels the egg as Ravs paces around his feet, quietly clucking. He offers the egg. Ravs snatches the egg out of his hand, dropping it to the floor. He tears at it on the spot with his beak. Duty done, Rythian returns to the kitchen table.

Saberial frowns at the weather report being relayed over the local radio. “We’re getting storms later tonight.” 

“Really? Trottimus, Ross and Alsmiffy are supposed to be flying in today.” Zoeya slips Ravs a bit of toast. Ravs darts over to grab it, retreating to his half finished egg.

“What time are they arriving?” Saberial rises to drop off her plates into the sink.

“Arsenal said he’d drop them off at midday,” Zoeya recalls.

“Can you ask if they can arrive earlier?” Saberial pauses at the doorway. “Come along people, we’re shuffling around jobs today to account for the storm!”

Everyone obediently troops outside after breakfast. The sun is relentless as usual, not a single cloud in sight, misleading of the storm bearing down on the farm. 

Saberial and Zoeya call on their army of farmhands to assist. The farmhands predict that it’ll be one of the bigger storms in the year, and not the last. Trusting their judgement, Saberial ECHOs Arsenal. He readily agrees to drop off their extra help earlier since Trottimus, Ross and Alsmiffy are already on  _ The Blackrock, _ and are simply resting up from their last mission.

That solved, Rythian and company begin preparations. He and Zylus drive to the local supply store in Saberial’s car; he and Zylus are in charge of emergency supplies and transporting sandbags. Zylus has experience with impromptu repairs and floods, and can lift heavy things. Rythian’s just there to supervise, he thinks, so Zylus doesn’t get snapped up by any single parties on the prowl for a polite, soft-spoken, dreamy, ‘good with his hands’ ex-soldier. Or so Daltos had put it.

“I wish Lalna was here to lend us his Loader,” Zylus grunts as he heaves another sandbag into the back of the car. “These things weigh a ton!”

“He wouldn’t let his precious Larry Robert do something so menial as manual labour,” Rythian remarks. “I think you’re doing fine on your own, though!”

“No, get over here and help me, you bludger,” Zylus grins and pants, “Or are you too good for manual labour too?”

Rythian lets him lift ten sandbags before he decides to help by teleporting the whole pallet for Zylus. He smiles at Zylus. Poor Zylus, who’s sweating buckets, doubled over and with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and blinking in disbelief at how Rythian just invalidated his efforts.

Zylus drives off without him. Rythian ends up clinging to the top of the car on all fours, screaming over ECHO for Zylus to stop and let him get in. He gets an earful of Zylus’ laughter before he’s blocked. Zylus isn’t supposed to have a mean streak of any kind. He must have picked it up from Daltos, or Arsenal. Or Minty. Or Ridgedog.

By the time Zylus pulls into the farm, Rythian vows never to fuck with him in any way, ever again. He climbs off the car roof, shakily collapsing into a wicker chair on the porch. 

Ravs the rooster appears, investigating why the tall, tanned human is moaning about ‘terrible, heartless drivers who’re supposed to be his friend’. Ravs shrugs (as well as a chicken can shrug) and parks himself on the conveniently placed boots resting in his favourite sunbathing spot. Rythian watches him for a second, then decides he doesn’t mind. Ravs barely weighs anything, fanning himself across the planks and leather beneath him.

He refuses to help Zylus unload the sandbags as revenge. Nilesy brings him some homemade lemonade, which he gratefully sips while recovering. Nilesy runs back to the barns to continue his inventory of the stock with the head farmhand. In a garage, Daltos is jury rigging some secondary pumps for the water tanks, fiddling with them.

Lomadia’s checking on pregnant livestock and herding them and their brethren to higher ground, from the grazing pastures towards the spare barns. Zylus sets up his sandbags, driving back to the local supply store to get more. 

Rythian goes with him to speed up the process by teleporting the bags to wherever. He could have instantly teleported them back to the farm but the mental strain of anything other than himself is too much.

Zoeya and Saberial move between all the duties, lending a hand here and there. Ravs the rooster stops sunbathing to supervise, checking in on everyone as well. Zylus and Rythian let him accompany them on one of their car trips; he perches on the dashboard, seemingly enjoying the ride, and the air conditioner.

The sky’s turning a darker blue, swelling dark clouds creeping on the horizon. The wind has a bite to it, no longer a cool breeze.

Hat Corp. arrives in the midst of all the commotion about what to do with the ripened grain in one of the harvest fields. Nobody can be spared; if this field doesn’t get harvested, the storm will decimate it, cutting into all the hard work, spent resources and profit the grain represents.

“What’s all this hubbub about?” Trottimus pops up between a farmhand and Nilesy, squinting at the map spread out on a picnic table someone set up.

“Yeah, how dare you have a meeting without us!” Alsmiffy joins Trottimus, peering over his shoulder.

“I brought snacks from Ravs, and didn’t eat them all on the way over!” Ross digistructs a crate filled with extra supplies.

“Hat people!” Nilesy jumps back, grabbing Ravs the rooster so he can’t suddenly attack these strangers. Ravs the rooster clucks in annoyance, kicking at the air with his feet. He gives up, sulking in Nilesy’s arms like a black, feathery lump. “When did you get here?”

“Just now. Arsenal couldn’t take us any closer since he has better things to do than play ‘taxi’, apparently,” Alsmiffy scowls.

“He told us we could jump instead,” Trottimus adds.

“Good,” Daltos says, earning a withering look from Ross.

“Why do you look so happy? Nobody’s usually happy to see us unless we’re holding food, money or information, or nothing,” Ross observes at all the anticipatory expressions on the faces peering at him and his two companions. The three arrive at a mutual conclusion, taking a step back at the same time.

“Whatever happened, it wasn’t us–“ Trottimus hastily begins.

“You’re not in trouble, you’re just in time!” Zoeya leans across the table, her eyes sparkling. “How familiar are you three with heavy machinery involving harvesting?”

“Give us a second,” Trottimus says, looking very relieved that the three aren’t going to be in any hot water. He huddles with Ross and Alsmiffy, the three’s arms linking across each other’s shoulders. Alsmiffy has to lean down, squatting. Trottimus has to balance on the balls of his feet. Ross just relaxes. He raises his head after a bout of hushed, passionate and conspiratorial whispers. “What models? When do you need it done by? Where’s it all going? Give us all the details!”

A farmhand feeds him all the machinery numbers. Zoeya sends the field and schematics. Trottimus’ head pops back down. The discussion intensifies. Rythian watches as pencils and paper are exchanged between the three. A surveyor spawns to project something at some point. 

Twenty-five minutes later, the three straighten up, stretching. Ross’ back elicits a nasty crick that makes Rythian wince (with a twinge of old guilt).

“So, can you do it?” Zoeya eagerly asks, with a face full of hope.

“I reckon we could,” Alsmiffy says, his tone smug. 

“But!” Ross rustles a bit of paper at her. Numbers and pencil scratchings fill every inch of it. A number in red pen is circled at the very bottom. “This is what we’re asking for, as an estimate.”

“Keep in mind that this is not a final figure, and you’ll be charged once the job is finished owing to potential disasters, hardships, expenses during the job, and we’re not liable for any damages caused by external factors, as per our insurance policy and disclaimers on our website, and you must fill out a customer satisfaction survey at the end. No new conditions can be added while this job is in progress, unless negotiated at the time. Payment is to be prompt, and in hard cash, unless we mutually agree on another form before finalising the contract. If you’re happy with these terms and conditions, please sign here, with a witness.” Trottimus spawns a holographic contract, the three forming an encouraging triangle of hands around it. He and Ross grin expectantly at her. Alsmiffy probably is too, judging by his body language.

“Wait, let me read that contract,” Nilesy says with his eyes narrowed in suspicion, breaking the newly born silence. He yanks it from their hands before any of them can react, tugging on a second set of identical glasses. His first pair sit on his forehead.

“Oi!” Alsmiffy tries to grab it back, but Lomadia blocks him by getting in his way. He smoothly pirouettes around her, reaching for Nilesy. Ravs breaks free from Nilesy’s one handed grip, flapping up to land on Alsmiffy’s head. Ravs pecks him between the eyes once, hissing low and fierce.

Ross and Trottimus waste no time in cackling and hooting at Alsmiffy’s surprise. “Good look for you!”

“Get this fucking cock off me!” Alsmiffy waves his arms about, spinning on the spot to dislodge Ravs. Ravs braces his feet, immediately clucking fast in excitement. Unable to keep his footing, he jumps. Saberial catches him, checking him. Ravs tilts his head, peering happily at her worried face.

“You’re lucky I didn’t turn you into drumsticks, pal!” Alsmiffy threatens. His fumbling bluff is ignored by Ravs, who looks pleased with himself. Alsmiffy grumbles chicken recipes under his breath as he backs off. Ross discretely wipes the drool from his mouth with a Hyperion stamped napkin.

“We revised our contract to match our current working conditions as Vault Hunters, so you’ll find that we’re a little more flexible all around. We even thought up of payment plans if you can’t cough up enough cash!” Trottimus proudly says.

“We also accept store coupons,” Ross helpfully adds. “But only if they’re current and not expiring in two weeks.”

“What’s so special about these second glasses?” Saberial asks Nilesy.

“They’re my contract glasses,” Nilesy explains. “They let me see any strings attached.” Everyone waits. He hands the contact to Zoeya. “Nothing’s off. It’s clean!”

Zoeya bites her lower lip, checking the total written on the final figure. “Saberial, do you trust them?” She glances at her. The three suddenly look worried.

Saberial takes a deep breath and says, “Yes.” 

The three sigh in relief.

Smiling, Zoeya and Saberial stamp signatures onto the contract. It’s whipped back by Trottimus, who despawns it. He grabs Zoeya’s hands and shakes them. 

“It’s a pleasure for Hat Corp. to lend our assistance! Let’s get started, lads! Ladies, please show us where you keep your farming toys.”

The meeting breaks up. Rythian tags along with Nilesy as Zoeya takes them to the equipment shed. The enormous harvesters are unveiled by the farmhands. One farmhand starts to explain how to operate it when Trottimus waves them off, already climbing into the driver’s seat.

“We got this,” He says, turning the key. The harvester wakes. Ravs’ hackles rise at the noise erupting within the shed. Nilesy takes him back to the house.

The audience retreats so they don’t get sliced into tiny pieces by the harvester’s blades as Trottimus steadily rolls it out of the shed, guided by his surveyors serving as lookouts. Behind him, Alsmiffy and Ross attach trailers to tractors, the two firing rapid questions at farmhands, who scramble to answer.

Ross steers his tractor with its empty trailer towards Trottimus. Trottimus sends his last surveyor to serve as a guide for Ross to follow, his other two continuing as lookouts. People watch as the two head down to the fields.

Stranger things have been witnessed than a scheming scientist, a hairy werewolf and a masked pyromaniac farming together. Everyone holds their breath as Trottimus lines himself up with the first rows of waiting grain, Ross pulling up with the trailer beneath the export pipe. The waiting heads of grain sway in the breeze.

In his glass cabin, Trottimus lowers his hand to the dashboard. The harvester’s blades start to click at empty air. Trottimus rolls forward, a behemoth of incoming plant death. Decapitated grain is sucked up, churning up and outwards, through the pipe into Ross’ waiting trailer like a golden waterfall of success.

Rythian can’t help cheering with everyone else as Trottimus grins, driving onwards. Ross gives a thumbs-up. 

“Leave it to us!” Alsmiffy boasts, driving a second backup tractor and trailer to park it beside the field.

“How are you so good at this?” Zoeya admires. “The last time I tried to drive one of those, I went diagonally instead of straight!”

“Two words: heist prep,” Alsmiffy answers. True to the contract, his party significantly speeds up the process.

The storm rolls into town with a bass drop consisting of a thunderclaps and a posse of lightning. Rain engulfs the farm, swamping it beneath watery sheets that wash against the windows like waves. The lights flicker on and off. 

Dinner is early, lest the power dies later. Lomadia and Daltos prepare vegetable soup and homemade bread, the latter courtesy of Zylus’ efforts. Trottimus, Ross and Alsmiffy are abiding houseguests if a little foul mouthed. With their reputations as can doers cemented (when they’re on the right side), Saberial and Nilesy are much warmer to them than before. 

Ravs the rooster is indifferent upon introductions. Alsmiffy gives him a wide berth, as does Ross ever since Ravs tried to preen his bird’s nest of a beard. Trottimus rewards him with a ceramic bowl full of cracked corn, a delightful treat. Ravs busies with pecking at it.

Zoeya checks his crop by sticking her hand on his belly. Ravs stands perfectly still. “My, you've been too busy to eat today, have you?” She pours chicken feed into the bowl. Ravs thanks her by clucking, as usual.

“He’s very neat,” Zylus observes from the couch. Most chickens upturned or scattered their food. Ravs takes neat mouthfuls, using his beak to search for the tastiest morsels.

“He’s a very good boy who cleans up after himself,” Zoeya praises, petting Ravs’ back. Ravs burbles nonsense, smacking his beak.

“Just like mine,” Rythian says.

“Hear, hear,” Daltos dryly agrees.

The door’s hammered by an urgent fist. A drenched farmhand shouts above the rain and wind. “Misses! A loose tree’s fallen into a barn! The stock’s going mad and trying to escape!”

The Vault Hunters leap into action beside Zoeya and Saberial. Saberial shouts, “Not everyone can go!”

Straws are drawn; Rythian and Daltos stay behind, no arguments. Too many cooks spoil the broth. Shields are powered on, raincoats and ponchos are dragged out of hiding and the race to round up terrified livestock is on.

It’s awkward, without a constant buffer of people around. The distant crash of thunder and murmur of rain does little to the silence. Rythian doesn’t know Daltos as casually as he does with Ravs, Zylus, Teep, Zoeya or Nanosounds. He’s made efforts to, since Daltos is part of the crew behind his agenda of tracking down all the Vaults. 

Daltos collects all the empty plates and eating utensils strewn about the living room, moving them to the sink to soak. 

“Can I help?” Rythian offers, standing up.

“Nah, stay where you are, just in case they ECHO.” Daltos leaves him be before returning. 

Ravs the rooster is the one saving grace. Bored of food, he searches the living room for his beloved lesbians. Not finding them, he tilts his head and automatically makes a beeline for the next best person: Rythian.

Rythian’s not sure what Ravs wants from him by flying up onto his lap. He doesn’t speak chicken. Ravs sits, back straight and feet tucked beneath him; his spurs are effectively put away.

“I think the needy cock wants some attention,” Daltos says in a voice barely containing his amusement.

“And, pray tell, how do I satisfy that?” Rythian tries shifting Ravs by levering him off with a gentle hand. Ravs braces himself on his lap, stubbornly staying. “Pass me the corn.”

“Good luck.” Daltos does so, grinning like he knows what Rythian’s about to try.

“Here!” Rythian offers the bowl of grain and corn to Ravs, shoving it under his beak. Ravs glances at it, then turns his beak up and away, rejecting it. 

At a loss, Rythian sighs, stumped. Ravs helpfully uses his beak to nudge Rythian’s hand towards him and into place, almost craning his whole head around. 

“If you wanted scritches, you should have just said so,” Rythian grumbles. Ravs purrs, melting under the motions.

A shot of lightning slams into the house. The lights sputter, dying a few seconds later. Ravs screams, leaping off into the dark. Daltos busts out a portable torch, one of Benji’s. Rythian flinched into the cushions. He adjusts his night vision as Daltos’ torch beam sweeps across the room.

“Ravs? Ravs!” Rythian calls. Ravs doesn’t answer, but his rapid pattering towards the front door clues the two in about his whereabouts.

“We’d better get him back,” Daltos says, tugging a coat on. He tosses a spare shield at Rythian

Rythian’s skin doesn’t crawl anymore when a shield’s touching him. He drops his scarf into his inventory, trading it for a waterproof one doubling as a hood (thanks Ravs the human, for that birthday gift).

He and Daltos creak open the front door. They can see Ravs the rooster charging at full speed towards the chicken barns, a tiny shadow against a watery backdrop of murky shapes.

“Ravs! Come back!” Rythian drags him and Daltos over in the direction of his footprints.

Ravs swerved around the corner, his footprints skidding sideways; a broken window left the ground covered in glass, the shards sinking into the mud. Inside, the barn’s filled with a cacophony of anxious clucks, alarm screams, panicked peeping and shrill crows.

A second set of bigger footprints alongside Ravs’ own had Rythian’s head spinning in anxiety. Zoeya and Saberial did everything they could to deter predators but that didn't stop them from taking chances when the humans are busy elsewhere.

Rythian and Daltos arrive. Screaming to the high heavens, Ravs is entangled with a growling, lithe, tailed form. Mud and rain scatter as the battle tears at the ground and sky. Between lightning flashes and thunder claps, feathers and fur strain, flexing and falling. 

The creature claws Ravs, scratching across his face. Ravs screams as it rakes across an eye. His beak snaps shut, head snapping down to punch into the creature’s eye as payback. Rabs extracts his beak, driving it down again, ripping apart the eye until it’s a mess of minced eyeball, fluid and blood. His wings beat the ground, churning mud away for traction, his feet sliding to gain purchase. 

Howling, the creature bats at Ravs, knocking him away onto his back. Leaping on him, the creature opens their maw to bite. Screaming, Ravs brings his feet up, his spurs smashing into its chest. He’s upright and still screaming as the creature shrieks, twisting away to protect itself. Ravs kicks at it, one-two, one-two, punching it back with every swift blow. 

The creature snarls, lowering itself. It charges Ravs, who strikes it from above with a downwards kick. Bowled over by the power from the pounce, Ravs rolls in the mud. Winded, the creature finds his neck. It bites down. Ravs struggles, lashing sideways. A bloody spur stabs into its chest as its teeth bury into Ravs’ hackles, preparing to maul him— Daltos nails the thrashing animal in the head with a pistol shot.

He adds another shot for good measure. Rythian dives for Ravs. He catches him as he and the creature topple over, a spray of mud and blood splashing against his boots. His hands find the creature’s mouth, heaving it up. Sharp teeth stick to Ravs’ neck. It’s a filthy, tattered mess, getting worse by the second. Rythian separates Rav as gently from it as he can, shoving the vile creature away. Ravs is a ragged bundle, his breathing shallow and slow, both eyes shut. Blood pours from every wound, colouring his black feathers a nauseating maroon. Rain washes it a pale pink against Rythian’s shield.

Daltos grabs the twitching carcass, throwing it into an empty grain sack for identification later. He despawns it. Rythian carries a limp Ravs in his arms, using a teleport to take them all back to the house.

Free from the blinding rain, Rythian can see how horrible Ravs’ condition is. 

“How do you treat a chicken?” He turns to Daltos,

trying to keep a tight leash on his building panic.

“I don’t know!” Daltos is digging through his inventory, his torch held between his teeth by the strap. “I got basic stuff from a kit, that’s better than nothing!”

Rythian fires a message at Lomadia, carrying Ravs to the kitchen table. Daltos hangs his torch above the table. Rythian unties his scarf, bundling Ravs up in it. He teleports a towel from upstairs, mopping as much rain as he can from Ravs, minding all the deep, bloodied spots. Daltos dumps a pack of cotton wool, antiseptic and tweezers by Rythian. He disappears to find the emergency animal kit Zoeya pointed out once on the house tour.

Rythian hears a shout from the bathroom (why is it in there). He yanks Daltos back to the kitchen. Daltos peels away one of Ravs’ stiff wings, lifting it up. He swabs at a bare spot with a soaked bit of wool. He uncaps and stabs an Anshin syringe into it.

Rythian holds a bandage to the deepest wound on Rav’ neck. He yanks Lomadia in as soon as her name pops up in his HUD. Lomadia takes one look at the scene and strips her outer wet gear onto the floor. She shoves both him and Daltos aside, her toolbox clanging as she spawns it.

Lomadia does her best, working fast to stem the blood flow. Daltos leaves the room to head off the return party of people. Rythian stays to help her, passing tools and items to her. At last, she spawns an incubator, hefting Ravs inside. Someone passes her a familiar tartan shawl, which she wraps him up in. 

Rythian takes his bloody scarf back. It’s stuffed into his inventory for later consideration. He’s tired and numb, hardly blinking as Zylus takes him upstairs to the bathroom. Zylus doesn’t talk much, bringing him a new set of clothes from the laundry. Rythian showers and goes right to bed, folding himself up beneath the sheets. He can’t face Zoeya and Saberial like this, for failing to protect their precious companion on his watch.

It doesn’t even occur to him to call Ravs (the human).

Zylus wins the bathroom for the first time since arriving at the farm. Rythian sleeps in. He’s roused by a soft knocking. He jerks awake, disorientated. Last night catches up to him. He groans, giving up on hanging to sleep.

“Rythian?” Zoeya’s muffled voice calls. “I have breakfast. Can I come in?” 

“Yes,” He reluctantly says, after a few seconds of hesitation and putting on a shirt.

Zoeya steps in. She’s carrying a small tray of oats, juice and fruits. “Morning! How did you sleep?” She’s cheery. Her eyes are a puffy red though. 

Rythian takes the tray. “Zoeya, I—“

“Whatever happened wasn’t your fault,” Zoeya interrupts. She sniffles, looking right into his eyes. “Ravs ran out because he knew something was wrong, and he protected the other flocks, even if they weren’t his, and he can’t enter any shows now.” Her voice snags, wobbling. “Thank you for saving him, Rythian!”

“Is he...?”

“He’s downstairs. Lomadia’s keeping an eye on him. Come see once you’re done eating.” Zoeya wipes her eyes, sniffling loudly. She blows her nose, hurrying out. Before she does though, she grins and adds, “Don’t worry, I made your oats with water, not milk.”

“Thank you,” Rythian quietly says to her back, glad that Ravs is alive. The oats go down like bland mush. He saves the fruit slices for later, chugging the juice to fend off the cold he suspects will hit him when he least expects it to.

Nobody but Lomadia’s in the living room when he pops in. She blinks, putting aside her book. A nod indicates the fish tank sized incubator on the coffee table. Rythian crouches. 

Ravs is sleeping soundly; bandages cover his neck, crisscrossing under and around his body. All the mud and blood from yesterday’s gone, even from his claws, wings, tail, spurs and beak. A patch clings to one side of his face, taped around his wattles and comb. His chest rises and falls in a calm rhythm. 

Rythian exhales relief, flopping down next to Lomadia. She smiles at him, returning to her book. “Saberial and Zoeya have given you, Daltos and I the day off. Daltos is having fun harassing Hat Corp with the tractor though.” Through the window, Daltos is attempting to mow down all three screaming members with the spiked grill mounted to the front of the factor.

“Thanks,” Rythian says. He decides to stay close by the living room, grateful for the excuse of yesterday’s ordeal to skive off farm chores.

He reads, sketches and tidies up the room; Zoeya and Saberial are creeping back towards old hoarding habits without Teep around to drive it back. He’d like to see Teep again; Teep’s elsewhere, occupied.

Around dinner, Rythian spies movement beneath the tartan blanket. He slams an alert into the local chat, immediately by the table. People abandon dinner (except for Alsmiffy and Ross, who start to double up on dessert prematurely), stampeding into the living room to crowd the incubator.

Inside it, Ravs lifts his head, his tiny body shifting. He feebly clucks once before his head immediately drops back onto the fabric. He shuffle-turns to face the glass, blinking tiredly at the anxious faces peering at him.

Friendly faces cheer and hug one another.

“He’s alive!” Zoeya’s burst into tears, clinging to Saberial. “He’s alive!” She whispers, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief Nilesy hands her.

Ravs weakly makes his ‘food, please?’ sound, struggling to sit up. Throughout the stay, everybody’s become familiar with his assorted noises (the screaming may or may not count).

Snapping latex gloves on, Lomadia pops the incubator open. She slips him into a miniature sling that helps him remain upright, carefully feeding him teaspoonfuls of water and seed mash dosed with medicine. 

She also checks his wounds and bandages. Zoeya takes over feeding him. Ravs devours everything pushed towards him, flinging bits of seed and mash onto the nearest bystanders: Rythian and Saberial. Saberial laughs, brushing them off. Rythian sighs and copies her, but he doesn’t mind.

“He’ll live, but he’ll need constant attention and supervision until he’s strong enough to walk.” Lomadia changes the bandages, save for the eyepatch. Ravs clucks softly at her, yawning. She unseats him and leaves him be after resting a spare ECHO device by the incubator as a monitor. “I’ll be finishing that roasted duck now, thank you.” She strides back to the dining room, everyone moving to follow her. “Hey, who took my ice cream and jelly?”

“Not me!” Alsmiffy claims.

“Nor I!” Ross adds, quickly wiping off the incriminating bit of white mush sticking to his beard.

Ravs croaks a miniature, hoarse scream when Rythian stands up from his crouch by him. He struggles, crawling on his front towards the open lid, feet kicking at the blanket covering him.

“Ravs!” Rythian gets a hand under Ravs’ chest, hoisting him back before he can escape the incubator’s safe confines. “Bad, stay!” Ravs gazes mournfully at him, clucking as much.

Lomadia sighs, returning. She double checks Ravs. “He’s fine. I think he’s just feeling lonely. I’ll bring your second helping of potatoes to you.”

“Why am  _ I _ the chicken sitter?” Rythian grumbles as he hears the lively dinner continue without him. Ravs’ head droops, his good eye drifting shut after a few minutes of intensely watching Rythian with his head tilted to the side.

Ravs takes a full week to recover; he spends two days in the incubator, gathering strength. Every single time he wakes and is alone, even in the middle of the night, he screams at the ECHO device parked by his incubator; people take turns to chickensit him, sleeping on the couch. The couch folds out into a comfortable bed.

It’s Rythian’s turn. Rythian waves goodnight to his friends, tucking himself in on said couch bed. Ravs the rooster peeks up over the edge, smacking his beak; he’s just been dosed with medicine. Zoeya turns off the lights and Rythian’s plunged into darkness, save for the pale glow of the ECHO device.

Ravs clucks, a soft, huffing noise punctuated by a faint shuffle as he also settles down to sleep. The sling’s no longer needed after the third day since Ravs can sit up on his own and move about. 

Lomadia lets him out for stints of exercise, watching as he flaps on and off the coffee table. It feels like he tries harder whenever Rythian’s watching through, looking quite pleased with himself when he can do it without needing to flop into a tired loaf afterwards.

Morning is announced by the regular, clockwork crowing from outside, thanks to the other roosters. Ravs still doesn’t crow; Zoeya and Saberial never stop hoping that he will, one day.

Rythian winces, jerking awake from his dreamless slumber as people rampage along the upstairs hallway for the daily bathroom race. He sits up, yawning. It’s then that he notices that  _ someone _ is missing from the incubator.

“Ravs!” Rythian snaps free of his grogginess, peering around. He runs a hand through his disheveled hair, pushing it out of his eyes; growing it out’s taking longer than he thought it would. Ravs (the human) likes the downy fuzziness he’ll soon have, already fond of running his fingers along it.

His fingers touch greasiness slicked along his hair. He freezes, confused. He glances at his thumb and fingers. A fine layer of oiliness coats them. He wipes it on his shirt, disgusted, and vaguely irritated. His first assumption is that Alsmiffy, Trottimus and Ross at large again; the trio successfully shaved Xephos’ whole beard off while they were asleep for some ridiculous bet with Honeydew. Xephos banned them from the local ECHOnet for two weeks, a heavy punishment when access is precious.

A smug cluck grabs his attention. Ravs is perched on an armrest by him. He preens himself, tucking and turning his head towards his lustrous tail. He removes his oiled beak, running it over himself. Seeing Rythian watch him, he emits a rapid series of inquiring clucks. It’s like Ravs is asking ‘did you like my impromptu preening of you?’.

Rythian scowls and joins the queue for the bathroom, enduring laughter from his friends. Ravs tries to hop up the stairs after him; he’s stopped by Saberial coaxing him away with a hard boiled egg. 

Once he’s corrected Ravs’ attempt to help him get ready for the day, Rythian has breakfast and is handed his schedule. His partner’s Daltos; they’ll both be helping move one flock of chickens into a new barn.

“Can’t be that hard, right?” Daltos says, sounding unusually optimistic.

“I can just teleport any escapees back.” Rythian snaps his fingers, stealing Zylus’ ready piece of toast that springs up with a ‘ding’ (take that for stealing the bathroom first). Zylus shoots him a glare. Daltos laughs, giving Zylus his last piece of toast. It mollifies him, but doesn’t stop him continuing to glare at Rythian while munching.

Saberial hands Rythian an odd hat before he steps outside, muttering something Rythian doesn’t recall until later.

The belated answer to Daltos’ question is: very hard. Chickens by nature, belong in flocks; they do not operate alone if they can help it and even then, each are of a single mind. If they all cooperate, it is because they have all voted upon it, and not because the humans are smarter. A  _ chicken _ herder, on the other hand…

All the chickens are loose in the main carpark. Daltos and Rythian are doubled over, panting. For every clique that moves, another breaks away. The farmhands are keeping a tight border so that no chicken is a lone island adrift on a sea of tarmac and painted lines. Also, roast roadkill is unappetising, according to Ravs (the human).

The roosters were captured first and put into the new barn; they tended to get aggressive under pressure, and nobody wants to be impaled by a chicken on the job.

Rythian’s memory dings. He spawns the hat Saberial gave him, inspecting it. Daltos lifts his head, squinting at it.

“Why did she say we’d need this?” Rythian mutters, puzzled. The red construction hat in his hand has a small wooden perch affixed to it, with chin straps hanging below the rim. He puts it on, leaving the straps loose.

“I dunno, put it on?” Daltos dusts his hands off after picking off a stray feather clinging to his jacket.

Footsteps patter on the concrete behind Rythian, followed by a timely flap of wings. A sudden weight settles on his head, gripping the perch. After a weighty pause, Daltos immediately cracks up, howling with laughter. The farmhands fail to suppress grins. Rythian calmly removes the hat, turning it around. Ravs the rooster wriggles his tail atop his perch, clucking ebulliently in greeting.

Rythian has half a mind to throw both the hat and rooster off to the side. He holds the hat out to Daltos instead. “You wear it!”

“Okay.” All the more surprisingly, Daltos takes it off him, immediately putting it on and moving the chin straps into place. Ravs keeps clucking. Daltos waits until Rythian’s taken a mouthful from his canteen. “I like having two cocks,” He then remarks, turning to face the horde of chickens before him.

Rythian spits his water out, hacking and coughing. With the chicken hat completed by Ravs’ presence, the chickens obediently fall into line behind Daltos. Where he goes, they go; he leads them into the new barn as Rythian and the farmhands round up stragglers and escapees.

At last, a few straggling hens run towards the barn. One pauses in front of Daltos. She squats, her tail raised. Daltos frowns. He picks her up, inspecting her. 

“Hey, I think this hen is being a real slut,” He says. 

Rythian snorts. Ravs the rooster flaps down from his head as soon as the hen’s put back down. Ravs turns and flaps his wings, ineffectively kicking Daltos in the shins; the hen startles, fleeing the scene with an indignant squawk. Daltos takes off the now empty hat, squinting at him. Ravs scratches at the ground, hackles raised and tail vibrating. As soon as the barn door closes, Ravs visibly relaxes. 

He crouches, bobbing low to the ground with his wings closed against his body, his feet alternating in quick stepping motions. He circles Daltos once, then twice. He  _ warbles _ at Daltos.

“What the fuck is he doing?” Daltos stares.

A farmhand approaches, waving their straw hat over their sweaty face. “Chicken dances for love,” They say, chuckling.

“Oh, hell no.” Daltos starts striding off in the direction of the farmhouse. Ravs the rooster follows, clucking at him. Rythian teleports away, just in case Ravs changes his mind and decides to serenade and woo him instead.

Zylus’ reaction to the whole thing is a mild, amused comment of ‘finally, someone who appreciates Daltos as much as I do’, which Daltos doesn’t appear to mind.

\--

Ravs’ eyepatch is removed by Lomadia on the seventh day of his recovery. He has a series of nasty scars, diagonal and cutting deep into his skin. His damaged eye is milky, the hazel colour barely visible beneath the cloudiness. Being down one eye didn’t stop him from continuing to woo Rythian and Daltos, though (or accidentally bumping sideways into objects or people).

It’s a giant source of entertainment; at breakfast, he offers Rythian his oatmeal and egg. Rythian’s no longer surprised that Zoeya and Saberial now let him have a spot at the table, but when that spot is used to deliberately offer his own food to Rythian or Daltos, it’s flagrant abuse of table privileges.

“He’s just being polite!” Zoeya says above the sound of Ravs making his tutting ‘here, food!’ noise while unsubtly nudging his bowl of oatmeal towards Rythian.

Rythian grumpily nudges the bowl back, oatmeal sloshing in the bowl. Ravs the rooster opens his beak to scream sadly.

\--

Daltos drops off the last of the egg cartons at the truck waiting to leave. The drivers wave to him, blaring their horn to announce their departure to the rest of the farm. Daltos closes the gate, finding his way back to the main house. It’s fall by now, the gradual change in weather marked by a chill in the air plucking browning leaves from the orchards, and the earlier creeping of the night.

Leaves crunch beneath his boots. He’s the last person to turn in for the day, already looking forward to dinner. When Nilesy’s assigned dinner, everyone knows it’s gonna be good. 

Ravs the rooster is wandering around outside the house, close to the water tanks. Daltos stops, looking around for a hiding place. Ravs is fixated on him and Rythian (Rythian more so, but if he’s not around, Ravs chooses him instead to be the target of his misplaced affections). He doesn’t really care, but it’s kind of embarrassing, especially since the chicken shares a name with Ravs.

There’s an item in Ravs’ beak. It’s a dead mouse, dangling by the neck, clearly dead from how loosely it dangles, head limp and limbs flopping about as Ravs’ head bobs.

Daltos crouches, moving towards the hay bales by the well. If he can make this, he can avoid the chicken. No luck. Ravs turns his head as Daltos takes one step, and is already zooming over at full speed, mouse flapping around comically from his beak.

“I don’t want it!” Daltos breaks into the fastest sprint of his life, dodging Ravs like Ravs is a mine littered battlefield full of Stinging Cactuses. Ravs turns, his confused cluck muffled by the dead mouse.

“Yes!” Daltos’ hand grabs the front door’s knob, turning it. It clicks. He tries again, his triumphant grin fading. The door’s locked. “No!” Hope at escaping fading, he confronts the source of his woes as it arrives on the porch.

Ravs dumps the mouse at his feet. It hits the floorboards with barely a thump, slumped on its side like it might be asleep. He clucks ‘here, food!’, exuding an air of pride for his skilled catch and generosity.

Daltos fires a message into the group chat as he uneasily eyes the offering.

> Daltos: your rooster refuses to let me go until i eat his present

> Arsenal: eat it

> Zylus: eat it

> Saberial: eat it

> Nilesy: eat it

> Trottimus: eat it

> Ross: eat it

> Alsmiffy: EAT IT

> Zoeya: eat it

> Daltos: fuck y’all

Ravs tilts his head, his clucking fading. He droops in disappointment, perhaps wondering why Daltos isn’t partaking in such a delicious gift.

Daltos is about to lob the mouse halfway across the yard and go for the back door while Ravs is distracted by the rejection. He spies a curtain moving out of the corner of his eye, where the kitchen window is. The feeling of being watched intensifies, as with his pending humiliation at the hands (er, wings) of Ravs. 

“I can’t believe I’m about to do this or risk hurting a chicken’s feelings,” Daltos mutters under his breath. He crouches, spawning a combat knife. 

Ravs scratches excitedly at the porch, his clucking returning in full force. Daltos gingerly lifts the mouse, turning it in his hand until it’s belly up. He makes one cut down the middle, using the knife to butcher the skin and flesh until he has a scrap of it in his hand. He lifts it up, pink, red and brown mixing in one inglorious bit of animal. The smell itself isn’t too nauseating; he’s smelled worse in bandit camps.

He knocks the scrap back like a bad jello shot, borrowing one of Arsenal’s sleight of hand moves to vanish it into his inventory. 

“Happy now?” He quizzes Ravs, pushing the remains of the mouse over with the edge of the stained knife.

Ravs clucks once, clearly joyous. He pushes the mouse back, repeating his earlier noise, wanting Daltos to help himself to the mouse as much as he wants.

Daltos sets his mouth into a line, sensing that he’s not going anywhere until Ravs is satisfied. He delicately skins and shreds the mouse, holding a bit out to Ravs. Unable to clearly resist the temptation, Ravs extends his beak, nibbling at the bit. He grabs it, devouring it. He stands for a few seconds, smacking his beak before eating the next one Daltos offers.

Save for the bones (which Daltos is careful about, since he doesn’t know if chickens can choke), Ravs eats the whole thing with no hesitation. Ravs struts off the porch, clearly happy that his gift’s accepted and shared in the best way.

“Thanks, I guess?” Daltos says to his retreating tail. He rises to his feet. He chucks the bones into the compost bin, discarding his knife in his inventory. He’s never using that knife to cut food again, not unless he bleaches it three times.

The front door’s now unlocked, though. He enters the kitchen, expecting to be mocked for making Ravs happy. There’s merely silence as he washes his hands (minus gloves).

“Why are y’all staring at me?” He asks when the silence is too much to bear.

“I refuse to kiss you for a month,” Zylus says, making a disgusted face as he prepares dinner with Nilesy. Nilesy merely opens and closes his mouth like a goldfish, shutting it and returning to adding the sauce to the pudding.

“We were watching from the window and you ate the mouse,” Saberial explains in a hushed voice.

“It was gross, but cool,” Zoeya says, nodding.

“I’m never daring you to do anything again,” Arsenal whispers.

“No?” Daltos spawns the dead skin, waving it in Arsenal’s face. “I didn’t eat it, you idiots!”

“EW!” Arsenal slaps it from his hand. Everyone watches it fly through the air in a magnificent arch, until it splats on the floor by Dick and Arden. The two kraggons latch onto it, beginning a growling tug of war that has their tails and feet sliding about on the kitchen tiles. Arsenal lunges towards them, shouting, “NO, BAD! RELEASE!”

Dick and Arden obey their master, jaws slackening as their heads whip around. The fleshy scrap hurls and lands on Zylus’ pudding as he’s about to set it down onto the table. He screams, flinging it away from himself.

Alsmiffy emerges through the doorway with Trottimus and Ross; the pudding slams into Trottimus’ face, causing him to flail and slap Ross in the face. Ross howls and trods on Alsmiffy’s foot. Shrieking, Alsmiffy shoves his two companions aside. The destroyed pudding splatters onto the floor, an opportunity that Dick and Arden don’t miss.

Rythian takes a step back from the commotion he enters twenty minutes later. He decides to skip involving himself, retreating to the safety of his room. Unseen, Ravs the rooster slips through the front door hatch with another dead mouse dangling from his beak.

\--

Nilesy left his ECHO device running at the table post lunch. Honeydew’s on hold, in the middle of giving him advice about how to prepare a quiche worthy of a glutton’s tears. 

Honeydew drums his hands on the table, restless with impatience. Trust Nilesy to run out of eggs on a chicken farm. Honeydew hears a rustle, and movement besides the ECHO device. The device clatters as it’s bumped off its stand.

“Nilesy? Are you back?” Honeydew hopefully peers at the screen. A black shape resolves itself as the device refocuses. A chicken peers at Honeydew from above. Honeydew and chicken stare at one another. The chicken clucks inquisitively, pecking at the screen.

“Don’t peck me!” Honeydew admonishes, worrying about Nilesy coming back to find a damaged and cracked ECHO device. The chicken stops, clucking apologetically. “Why is there a chicken in the house?”

The chicken settles by the device, making random noises. Maybe if Honeydew understood chicken, it’d be a wonderful conversation.

“Are you Ravs?” Honeydew inquires. The chicken considers him, and clucks once, perking up. Honeydew squeals. “It’s really you! I thought Nilesy was pulling my leg! Oh, you’re lovely. I bet you’d win prizes for how handsome you are.”

Ravs cocks his head after a few seconds. He opens his beak. Honeydew’s mouth drops at the sound that leaves Ravs. Ravs repeats the sound with considerable enthusiasm. 

“Ooooohh noooo, what have I done?” He moans into his hands. “Forgive me, everyone!”

\--

Saberial hoists the heavy laundry basket higher on her hip. All the jumpers have been washed, and it’s not her turn to do the ironing. Cheered up by this, she lugs the lot back into the house. She opens the back door for Ravs the rooster, who’s clearly on his way elsewhere. He changes his mind, following her back inside.

“Make up your mind,” She grumbles, shutting the door and locking it.

“Uwu!”

She turns on the spot, her boots squeaking on the floorboards, trying to pinpoint the source of that one sound. It must be another one of Zoeya’s pranks; Zoeya once drove her half mad by hiding ‘happy birthday’ sung entirely in burps. It took Saberial an hour to find it (hidden in Teep’s sniper rifle case, without their knowledge; the sheer bravery and nerve of that move stuns her still, and thankfully, Teep hadn’t come back to find her tearing through their private stashes to disable it).

No ‘uwu’ like the one she just heard could ever be realistically captured in a recording, however. 

Saberial’s eyes land on Ravs, who’s standing in the middle of the hallway. “Was it you?” She flatly asks, already dreading and knowing the answer she’ll get.

“Uwu!” Ravs chirps. 

If chickens could grin, he’d be doing so right now. He merely puffs up, proud of his ability to learn something new (never mind how distressed the bearded carrot coloured man had been when Ravs had made that sound; it’d been a good sound; happiness is what it is, Ravs had promptly decided).

He trots off to the living room as Saberial screams, “WHO TAUGHT RAVS HOW TO ‘UWU’, BECAUSE WHY?”

In the living room, Daltos sneaks up on Zylus by using a special walk he uses to avoid lieutenants, Minty, Arsenal, Arsenal’s Boners, bad coffee, and both Ravs. Zylus is flicking through channels, the ECHOset’s screen relaying random snatches of sound and colour. He’s bored out of his mind, personal security lax from channel surfing.

Daltos hands’ clap over Zylus’ eyes. “Guess who?” He whispers, right next to Zylus’ head.

The corner of Zylus’ mouth twitches. He already knows who it is, and he’s not amused (fine, maybe a tiny bit) by the childish games Daltos likes to randomly pull when his guard’s down.

The holiday’s doing him good, at least. No more moping around the bridge, too stressed to relax. The holiday’s not doing good for Zylus, though. Zylus opens his mouth to snap at him, but all that leaves his mouth is, “Uwu!”

“It’s not ‘uwu’, Zylus, it’s me,” Daltos says, clearly struggling not to laugh. Zylus knocks his hands away, rising to his feet as his face heats up in record time.

“That’s not what I was going to say! I knew it was–“

“Uwu!”

“You,” Zylus flatly says as Daltos grins at him. Zylus and Daltos turn at the same time to see Ravs moving around the coffee table, clearly enjoying the effect he’s having. “Stop interrupting me–“

“Uwu!” Ravs says, then runs as Zylus lobs a piece of half-eaten toast at him.

“I’ve had enough of you!”

“Uwu!”

“Run, Ravs, I’ll hold him back!” Daltos shouts, already tackling Zylus onto the couch.

“Daltos, no!” There’s a distant crash when Ravs reaches the kitchen. A meeting is called to discuss what they should do with him.

“Someone please make him stop.” Saberial despairs at the rooster strutting underneath the kitchen table who’s saying ‘uwu!’ and nothing else. On the other hand, Zoeya is overjoyed that Ravs can finally express himself.

\--

In the end, nothing can stop Ravs from uttering ‘uwu’ constantly. Threats fall short of convincing him to make other sounds; he accepts bribes, devouring mealworms in one gulp, pecking at slices of fruit and minces vegetables. He ‘uwus’ afterwards in gratitude. 

Punishment and violence aren’t even on the table; it seems cruel to use such barbaric means on such a sweet and loving cock (as Ravs, the human, not the chicken, himself put it, when Rythian updates him on the unusual situation).

Zoeya, Saberial and their friends decide to let Ravs (the rooster) roll with his ‘uwu’ phase to his heart’s content. Zylus still throws toast at Ravs whenever Ravs says it near him, especially when finishing his sentences. Ross ‘uwu’s along, annoying Trottimus and Alsmiffy, guffawing and egging Ravs on. 

Rythian teleports away from Ravs when Ravs approaches him with a friendly ‘uwu’, perhaps intending on offering another dead mouse. 

The last time he let Ravs anywhere near him with one, Ravs sneaked into his room while he was asleep and left it on his other pillow as a surprise morning present. Rythian rolled onto it, his brain short circuiting as he snapped awake and promptly had a screaming fit once he realised what it was, waking up the rest of the house in the process. Ravs has since been banned from bringing mice into the house; Zoeya’s never scolded a chicken before, and Ravs seemed to have taken the lesson to heart. No dead mice have appeared indoors since.

Nobody said anything about outdoors though, when Saberial unearthed a stash of dead mice buried in the frozen snow beneath Ravs’ coop post cleaning. She doesn’t abhor dead mice, but really, who the hell hoards dead mice like that? Ravs the rooster does, apparently, as a tasty snack. They let him keep the stash, so long as he doesn’t bring them inside. It also explained why nobody’s recently complained of mouse related activities affecting the farm.

“He’s as good as a cat!” Nilesy praised as he filled out the paperwork for the upcoming country festival.

Rythian leans against the wall, picking up the call when Ravs pings him. There’s the usual small talk; Ravs is attending to Reginald’s night time routine while chatting to Rythian.

“Ravs, you’ll never betray me like the chicken would, would you?” Rythian asks.

“Uwu?” Ravs says, grinning innocently.

Rythian wordlessly teleports the ECHO device into the trash can on the other side of the room, much to Ravs’ displeasure. It takes half an hour for Ravs to work his way back into Rythian’s good graces. Anyway, Rythian cuts the call short; he has to get up at the crack of dawn to help Zoeya and Saberial lug (rather, teleport) things to the country festival.

The annual country festival is happening in the giant cornfield post harvest. Zoeya and Saberial were sent an invite from the mayor as part of the agricultural community newsletter, and for their contributions of much needed supplies and food after the awful storm a while ago. 

Panda’s dropping by later in the day. When Rythian asks if Teep’s showing up? “Teep’s skipping this one,” Panda grumbles. “Something about not wanting to spook animals, whatever they meant by that. They’ll miss out on the food!”

Teep says ‘sorry for not wanting to meet the chicken likeness of Ravs, which I could never erase from my mind’ when Rythian prods them for an explanation. It’s an hour before dawn, and Rythian’s sipping on his critical cup of coffee. Ravs the rooster is already awake, wandering around the gravel paths in search of trouble.

Ravs spies a target and darts after it, lunging with wings spread wide and head dipped low. It’s a field mouse; Rythian feels a pang of sympathy for the tiny creature, being chased by a persistent predator like Ravs (not that his would ever be that way, unless severely wronged). 

The lucky mouse cunningly scampers up a stalk in the vast fields next door. It squeezes itself in one of the large pods split along the top, laying flat and silent. Ravs pauses in front of the towering plant. He tilts his head to the side, straightening up. He throws his head back, appearing to shriek as a declaration of war as Rythian sips his coffee. 

Ravs flutters off the ground to deliver a sideways slash of a kick, hacking at the plant’s stalk. The plant takes the hit in stride, merely rustling. The pod concealing the mouse sways sideways but remains attached to the stem. Ravs continues his assault, lashing this way and that. 

Rythian stops sipping his coffee, concern developing. He raises his hand to ask Saberial if this is perfectly normal behaviour– spotting his expression, Saberial merely glances at the sight, then snorts.

“Oh, he’s fine, he just thinks the plant stole his mouse and he’s going to get it back if he keeps attacking it. He’ll stop eventually once he realises it won’t.” Saberial shakes her head, pouring herself coffee. “Want some more coffee?”

Rythian politely declines. He doesn’t want the jitters hitting him mid-teleport. In the field, Ravs screams at the offending plant, huffily stalking away with his head held high and tail vibrating at his lost prey. The mouse emerges once Ravs is inside the house.

Nobody has to worry about rounding him up for the car trip to town. Ravs the rooster attaches himself to Rythian like a feathery watchdog. He offers Rythian his oatmeal. As usual, Rythian turns it down, and sticks to human approved food that doesn’t have mealworms scattered throughout it. 

He carries Ravs into the car. Otherwise Ravs kicks up a fuss and sulks. Ravs settles onto Rythian’s lap, tucking himself on it like he’s always belonged there, purring happily. He dances and warbles to get his attention, daily.

Zoeya must have thirty new videos of Ravs the rooster wooing him at this point. She’s vowed to keep them to herself; Rythian suspects that there’s memes already being made of him and the chicken on the ECHOnet.

“Must be nice having a chicken willing to die for you,” Daltos notes, sitting next to Rythian. He must be glad that Ravs didn’t pick him to be today’s object of infatuation. In the next second, Ravs has plonked his head on his arm. Daltos sighs but doesn’t shake him off, absently scratching him behind the comb.

Rythian dips into his inventory as the car comes into view of the country festival.

Panda’s ship catches up with them just outside of the festival. They park, and jog up to the group. Saberial swings Panda in a wide arc, causing Panda to grump about being treated so casually.

“Come on, I haven’t seen you in months!” Saberial noogies them. “Lighten up!”

Panda sticks their tongue out at her, lightly pushing her away. They run a hand through their white spikes of hair, undoing the damage. They spot Rythian, breaking into a grin. “Hey, your surprise should be running along any moment now.”

“Can’t get any worse than this.” Rythian indicates the leash in his hand. The leash is currently attached to one Ravs the rooster’s harness.

He blames Zoeya for shoving the idea onto him; she’d tried to put the leash and harness on Ravs; Ravs lay down on the carpet and refused to move until she removed it. When  _ Rythian _ held the leash in his hand, Ravs ran at him with the harness dragging along the floor, clucking excitedly.

“I think Ravs wants to impress you with his tricks,” Zoeya hypothesised as she snapped a picture of him taking Ravs for a walk along the beach. Ravs clucked and ‘uwued’ nonstop at the sky, the rocks, the sea, and at the seagulls cruising overhead, kicking up sand in his enthusiasm. Rythian considered it to be one of his less embarrassing moments in life.

His Ravs cruises into view, the mist at his feet parting like the red seas of Hecate. Ravs is dressed as he usually is, in a kilt and leather jacket. He’s added a scarf. Rythian almost drops the leash in his haste to stop looking so flustered. It’s been weeks since he last saw him in person, but only about half a day since he last talked to him over ECHO.

“Surprise!” Ravs swoops down upon him, gracing him with a cheek kiss and his glorious presence by simply existing.

“Ravs! What are you doing here?” Rythian hugs him. Ravs pats him on the back; he smells of pigeon; sure enough, wee sexy Reggie is camped on Ravs’ shoulder, head tucked under his wing, dozing lightly.

“I couldn’t possibly turn down Saberial and Zoeya’s invitation. Besides, I get to see everyone again.” Ravs greets the group with a friendly wave. He turns his eyes downwards. It’s not Rythian he has in mind, for once. “And I couldn’t resist wanting to meet my doppelganger.”

Ravs the rooster has gone still, watching Ravs the human with abnormal silence. Ravs the human smiles, all teeth. He crouches, well within kicking range.

“Hello, Ravs,” Ravs the human warmly says. “It’s nice to meet you at last.”

Ravs the rooster cocks his head. The group knows that Ravs the rooster understands most speech; him playing dumb is to weasel out of trouble. Rythian tightens his hold on the leash, curling up the length of it, ready to snap it back if Ravs the rooster decides the other is a threat. His hackles flutter briefly, toes slowly curling against the dirt. 

There’s a moment of unspoken connection.

“Uwu!” Ravs the rooster chirps, flapping up to affectionately nuzzle Ravs with his head. Reginald shifts onto Ravs’ other shoulder. Ravs scratches himself on the head, smiling softly.

The unspoken connection is adorable. Ravs walks off with the chicken and pigeon comfortably riding his shoulders (Rythian gives him the leash, just in case other Ravs decides to cause trouble elsewhere).

Rythian sticks close to him. This is another date, isn’t it? It is. Ravs takes his hand, leading Rythian about in his quest to sample every single free offering of booze available. Rythian declines the drinks, trying to remain sober. Come to think of it, his soberness has lasted for months now. He might be considered ‘clean’. Ravs knocks back five small cups in succession, barely pausing between stands. He pauses to buy a six pack of glass bottles from a few, storing them in his inventory.

People seem to get a kick out of him toting around a human, a chicken and a pigeon with him. The rest of the group’s dispersed to enjoy themselves. Zoeya and Saberial are close by, examining the cheese alley. Rythian doesn’t envy them, what with his unfortunate dietary affliction. Ravs however, leaves him alone and returns with special cheese made for people like him.

He nibbles on it, though Ravs the rooster attempts to gift him a bit of cobbled corn someone decided to feed him. Rythian politely declines it; Ravs wolfs it down and continues to play cute, part of his game to be fed on the go.

Zoeya finds him again as the two parties meet at the end of all the food stalls. Ravs isn’t drunk. He’s in good spirits, and Reginald is earning him admiring questions and attention. Rythian’s hardly jealous.

Ravs the rooster greets Zoeya and Saberial with rapid, friendly clucking. Zoeya feeds him a cup of fresh salad. He dips his beak into it, inhaling the leaves with gusto, sending drops of water flying everywhere.

“Hey, there’s a chicken race later!” Nilesy jogs over, waving a flyer in his hand. 

“Really? Let me see!” Zoeya takes it from him.

“I think you should enter Ravs,” Trottimus slides over with Alsmiffy and Ross, a sly gleam in his beady eyes.

“Yeah!” Ross carries an enormous drumstick the size of his forearm, munching his way through it with giant bites and loud chewing. Bits spray from his mouth when he speaks.

“It’s free!” Alsmiffy has a skull painted atop his gas mask. “And Ravs isn’t too small to enter, or too blind.”

Ravs pauses in his salad destruction, aiming a quick peck at Alsmiffy’s feet. Alsmiffy jumps backwards, brandishing a spray bottle of water. Ross growls when he’s bumped. Alsmiffy edges away from him.

“Back off, you bully! I heard these are really good for showing chickens who’s boss!” He shakes the bottle of water. It sloshes in his hand.

“I think you mean cats,” Nilesy corrects.

“Nope! I saw a video on the ECHOnet! Have at thee!” Alsmiffy’s finger slowly depresses the trigger. Ravs the rooster raises his head, unfolding both wings in readiness. Alsmiffy sprays him. Ravs the rooster merely relaxes into the fine mist of water, clucking happily.

“Sorry, he likes the sprinklers when they come on in the gardens,” Zoeya whispers to him. “Baths too.”

“Fuck!” Alsmiffy sulks as he puts away the bottle. Trottimus sniggers at his failure.

“Let’s enter Ravs in the race!” Saberial picks up Ravs the rooster, tucking him under her arm with his leash. Everyone follows her to the registration table.

The judges fail to suppress their smirks at Ravs the rooster’s appearance, but permit Zoeya to enter him in the race. Zoeya doesn’t appear to have noticed their derision when they leave the line of people (toting caged roosters) behind them.

“Well, nothing else to do but kill time!” Zoeya cheerfully pats Ravs. 

“Or let’s go find good seats! I bet we can set up bets around the waiting people…” Trottimus, Ross and Alsmiffy rub their hands together as one conniving party.

The stands overlook a rough plot of a track field. A white ribbon’s been strung between two wooden poles planted into the ground. The distance between the start and finish line is roughly two hundred metres, by Rythian’s estimation.

Next to him, Ravs is feeding his pigeon a handful of seeds. Reginald coos softly, pressing up against Ravs’ neck.

“You think you’ll win?” Rythian teases.

“Of course I’ll win!” Ravs grins at him. “I’d hate to disappoint anybody believing in me.”

“Do you mind if we sit here?”

“Not at all.” Rythian turns his head as Daltos plops down beside him, with Zylus on his other side. 

Ravs leans forward to wave at the two. “And where have you been all day?”

“Zylus wanted to take notes about bread from the masters in the baking area. I finally dragged him here when we were gonna be late to the races.” Daltos is holding a white pocket of chips drowning in gravy. He offers it to Zylus.

“It was good bread!” Zylus scowls at him, taking one chip and eating it.

“I can see Zoeya and Saberial!” Ravs points to the start line where people are unloading their roosters into the stalls. Rythian can spot Zoeya’s distinctive red hair bobbing behind the stalls.

Zoeya unclips the harness and leash from Ravs the rooster. Ravs stretches, fluffing up and flapping his wings. He’s the smallest rooster in attendance, and not the meanest looking, even with his scarred face. People keep sneaking looks and laughing behind their hands and his two owner’s backs. 

Saberial grits her teeth, flexing her muscles as she pretends to yawn and stretch. “I hate this already,” She mutters beneath her breath. It’s like the annual mercenary convention all over again.

Her blissfully ignorant girlfriend is crouching besides Ravs and the assigned stall. Zoeya feeds him scratch for strength. Ravs eats out of her hand, excitedly professing his thanks. 

“Alright, when the gate opens, aim for the white line!” She explains.

Ravs lifts his head to acknowledge her with an enthusiastic waggle of a nod. She coaxes him into the stall, closing the door. Ravs peeks up over the top of the gate on his tiptoes.

“Face the front,” Saberial instructs. “Good luck!”

“You can do it!” Zoeya leaves him be with an encouraging wave. 

Ravs clucks once in alarm, wondering why they’re leaving him be all by himself. He can hear the other roosters scratching at the ground, low murmurs of barbs and jabs reverberating along the stalls.

He turns to face the front, wondering what all the big fuss is about.

Zoeya and Saberial squeeze into the competitor’s seats at the very front. Rythian and company are only a few rows back. The announcers begin to list off the names and numbers of the roosters; Ravs is the fifth in line. All the other roosters have names like ‘Red Sunset’, ‘Pure Envy’, ‘Winner Dinner’, and ‘Big Chungus’, which causes people to laugh. 

Ravs’ name causes Ravs (the human) to perk up and quip, “That’s me!”

A tense silence descends as the referee appears on the field. They hold an airhorn in their hands, pulling on earmuffs. Grimacing, they blast the airhorn. 

The stalls open. Roosters burst forth, feathers and dust spraying as the horde surge towards the white line. The announcers launch into colorful detail.

“Where’s Ravs?” Dismayed, Zoeya looks amongst the flashes of colour streaking up the track.

“He’s still at the start line!” Saberial hisses, nudging her.

Ravs shyly peeks out from his stall. He steps out, confused at where everyone went. 

“Ravs, run!” Zoeya yells, gesturing widely. Someone next to her nearly falls out of her seat from her gesticulations. Ravs perks up, jogging over. “Not towards me, the line!” 

People are losing it in the stands at the wayward rooster, even the announcers.

Saberial glances at Ravs. She slowly turns in her seat, staring at Rythian and Daltos. Daltos is sharing his chips with Rythian. “What?” The two ask.

“Teleport to the finish line!” Saberial shouts by cupping her hands around her mouth.

“Who, me?” Rythian points to himself.

“Yes, you.” Grinning, Ravs the human reaches down and unhurriedly pinches Rythian on the thigh. Rythian jumps into Daltos, who grunts as he tries to stop his chips from falling out of his hands.

The two blink, finding themselves at the finish line, awkwardly sprawled on the ground. Rythian picks himself up and helps Daltos get to his feet. They’re behind the judges’ table. The judges ignore them in favour of watching the race.

“My chips!” Daltos sighs, shaking his head. “I hope Zylus caught them.” Zylus did not, but Ross did (with his whole mouth).

Ravs the rooster gawks for a second at the disappearance of Rythian and Daltos. He revolves on the field, head held high like a satellite dish, his good eye running over the crowd in the stalls until he’s facing the finish line. There, in the distance! 

He starts with an easy jog, switching to a power walk, flapping his wings for help in defeating air resistance and balance. At last, he lowers his head as he begins his long awaited charge of love.

The other roosters are tiring, having expended their energy from the get go. Most are panting, wings drooping and heads lolling. Two begin to fight, kicking at each other; the referee yanks on thick gloves and sprints over to separate them. Amidst this new commotion, a black missile zooms past, leaving a trail of miniature footprints.

The lead roosters sense the challenge, picking up speed themselves. Unfortunately, their training never included chasing after their objects of fixation through thick and thin; Ravs the rooster is the undisputed champion.

A cloud of dust accompanies Ravs the rooster, who flaps his wings so he doesn’t careen into another rooster. He knocks them aside with his speed and turbulence. Nothing can get in his way of reuniting with his crushes.

“Oh hey, here he comes!” Daltos points.

The world slows. Ravs breaks the white ribbon with his chest, letting it trail on either side of him. It flutters in his wake. Saberial appears out of nowhere to intercept him; he dodges her outstretched hands by tucking one wing in, using his momentum to dodge around her feet.

He launches over the judges’ table, feet retracting. Someone’s toupee is knocked away by the burst of wind that Ravs causes when he flaps his wings to stay aloft.

Form spread eagled, Ravs the rooster descends on Rythian– landing on his face, belly first. Rythian sputters, tasting dirt. Ravs drops like a stone, folding himself back up, clucking like never before, nonstop and breathless. Rythian catches him, cradling him in his arms.

The world resumes at normal time. The announcers are stunned by the newcomer, giving a playback and reviewing the footage. Nobody can dispute that Ravs the rooster won; he’d left the other roosters behind by a good few metres.

The judges crowd Rythian, bestowing congratulations on the lucky winner. Rythian backs up, clutching Ravs tightly. Ravs purrs. The local newspaper joins in, wanting a quote. 

“This isn’t my rooster, and no, I don’t know how he won, I said he’s not mine! He’s not going to stud, that’s my friend’s call to make!” Rythian hastily says. “Do I have any words for the rooster?” He glances down. Ravs is looking at him with hope. “Good job, I guess.” He can see Saberial pushing people aside, Zoeya running across the grass with other Ravs. Please save him already.

Ravs the rooster glances at Daltos, as if expecting praise from him as well. When Daltos doesn’t do anything, Ravs leans over to chomp him on the arm. Daltos yanks his jacket out of Ravs’ beak. Ravs makes a huffing noise, turning his head away in a mild sulk.

“Fine, fine, you did awesome,” Daltos grudgingly says.

Ravs perks up. He throws his head back, drawing air into his lungs, and crows. His crow soars across the whole track field, up to the stalls and beyond it. It lasts for five seconds, truly impressive since said rooster just ran a race. Ravs stops, panting lightly. He also deigns to smooch Rythian by pressing his beak to Rythian’s chin in perfect imitation of Ravs the human. Rythian hopes that nobody’s taking pictures.

Zoeya catches up, her eyes sparkling. She takes and swings Ravs in her arms, causing him to crow again. She’s laughing, praising him over and over again. They both couldn’t be happier.

For dinner, Ravs the rooster is awarded a whole slab of special show grade seed for him to enjoy. He also earned a year’s worth of free chicken feed for the farm. He pecks at it a few times, before promptly deciding that Rythian’s mashed potatoes are tastier.

He crows as the sun sets, the first place ribbon tied around his neck catching the last rays and shining.

On the couch post dessert, Ravs the human leans his head on Rythian’s lap. Rythian adjusts his book out of the way, careful not to knock Ravs in the face with it. Ravs the rooster threads his way around the humans scattered around the living room, trying to find either Daltos or Rythian.

Daltos must have fled the living room to hide from him. Last time, Ravs parked himself on his shoulder and happily sipped from Daltos’ brand new glass of water. Chickens didn’t seem to mind sharing, but Daltos did. His expression was unusually flat.

Ravs the rooster pauses at Rythian’s feet, staring up at the origin of his name. He cocks his head to the side. Ravs the human notices his presence, sitting up slightly to watch him.

“Haha, I stole your spot!” He declares. “What’re you gonna do about it?” 

Ravs the rooster appears to think, clucking once. He brightens, flourishing both wings and kicking off the ground. He lands on Ravs’ lap, carefully stepping onto Ravs’ chest. Ravs and Rythian curiously watch him, as with the rest of the room.

The rooster straddles Ravs’ face, gently lowering his feathery belly atop him. He cooes happily as he successfully shares the position on Rythian’s lap. A second of tension unwinds. Rythian and their audience burst into hysterical laughter. Ravs sneezes, a blast of noise and sound that dislodges the other Ravs.

Human Ravs scoops up the surprised rooster, tossing him like a ball across the room. Ravs the rooster glides, clucking excitedly. He retracts his legs underneath him. Zylus catches him by dropping his book. Ravs the rooster croons in appreciation, smooching Zylus on the face, hopping down to race back to other Ravs, clearly eager to be lobbed again.

“I think you might have started a game with him,” Saberial dryly says. She lifts him into her arms as he yawns. “Come on, time for bed, you’ve had a long day.”

Ravs the rooster snuggles against her, purring as he nods off.

\--

Saberial sneaks in an extra trip to the jeweller on her offworld errands. Zoeya never asks about the specific details of her trips, understanding that Saberial doesn’t like talking about the nature of her family’s business, and Saberial doesn’t pressure her to write her books, guest lectures or grants faster.

The engagement ring rests in her inventory like a legendary weapon she’s hiding from Panda. As her ship descends, Saberial runs over the mental plan. Everybody (including the farmhands) are under instructions to steer clear of the house for the time being. Ravs the rooster didn’t adhere to human memos, so he’s excused.

She turns off her ship, letting it power down. Breathing through her nose to stay calm, Saberial fishes out the velvet box and ring. The ring is a simple piece, barely flashy with its lone white jewel; Saberial requested one that’ll last through high and low temperatures, ink splatters, weather, physical pains, most creature guts, elemental damage, and the vacuum of space. She paid extra for a hefty warranty (promising an exact replica if anything happens to it).

Today’s the day she’s proposing to Zoeya. 

Saberial hastily stuffs the ring in her pocket for easy access, stepping out and into the house. Ravs the rooster notices and follows her inside after stuffing his face at his feeder. Saberial jiggles the door open; the hinges haven’t behaved, continuously jamming after the entire storm episode.

The ring tumbles from the open box, through the hole in her jacket pocket, silently hitting the floor. Ravs the rooster leans down to inspect it. He nudges it with his beak. His puzzled sounds causes Saberial to turn. In horror, she watches him open his beak.

Saberial dives at him, landing on her stomach and floor with a loud thump. Her hands close around his body and wings, making him snap his beak on the outside of the ring instead of over it. Ravs squawks in indignation, his feet kicking uselessly in the air. 

She stands up, shakily inspecting him. She holds him firmly. “Give me the ring!” She hisses. “I need it!”

Ravs makes a muffled noise of discontent, refusing to drop it.

“Saberial?” Zoeya heard the thump and decided to investigate, just in case Ravs knocked something over in his never-ending quest to eat every mouse in the house. She appears in the doorway.

Saberial has no time to conceal herself, Ravs or the ring. Ravs burbles ‘hi’ around the object in his beak.

“Zoeya! Uh–“ Saberial almost stuffs Ravs into her pocket, remembering that he’d probably swallow the ring if she doesn’t keep holding onto him. He also wouldn’t fit anyway. She just holds him out towards Zoeya. “Would you have the honour of becoming a wife? Wait, that sounded stupid, let me try again–”

Zoeya’s eyes widen. She slaps both hands to her cheeks, gasping. She gently takes the ring from Ravs’ beak, sliding it onto her finger (a perfect fit). “Yes! Of course I’ll marry you, Ravs!”

Ravs puffs up in pride at a successful delivery. Saberial’s mouth falls open. “You can’t marry Ravs!” She chokes out as Zoeya admires the ring from all angles.

“Just kidding.” Zoeya winks and pauses to stick her tongue out at Saberial. “You’re the only one I could marry!”

Saberial drops Ravs (who flutters to the floor and proceeds to sulk on the couch) to kiss Zoeya over and over again. Zoeya laughs, clinging to her.

\--

The announcement is made by hanging a hand-written sign around Ravs’ neck. Ravs stays perfectly still throughout the photo shoot, lured by the promise of morning mealworms. The sign says ‘my lesbian owners are finally getting married and are adopting me as a son!’. Zoeya and Saberial let it loose on their social feeds and watch the counter for congratulations tick away during breakfast.

Ravs tucks into his dish of dried mealworms, crunching them in his beak and flinging bits everywhere. He dances around Zoeya’s feet, wanting a cuddle as well, because hasn’t he been extra well behaved this morning? He didn’t even crow and let them sleep in! Zoeya ends up giving him head scritches, earning content purrs.

Panda arrives first; Teep isn’t with them, unfortunately. Panda cites ‘top secret mission’ as their reason. They don’t elaborate in spite of Zoeya’s puppy eyed wheedling.

In the living room, Ravs the rooster circles Panda a few times before opening his beak to scream– Panda calmly digs in their pockets and scatters a handful of freshly cut grass. Ravs begins pecking happily at the carpet. Saberial and Zoeya stare. 

“What? Edible grass is the new snack trend. Want some?” Panda digistructs a punnet of long grass that waves in the air. Saberial and Zoeya pinch some off and chew it. It’s sweet, crunching between their teeth, not half bad. “Chickens eat grass, right?”

“Ravs does like to eat the spring grass sometimes,” Zoeya says, pinching another few off and eating it.

“I think Ravs is enjoying himself,” Saberial says dryly, watching Ravs hoover up more grass with enthusiastic ‘uwus!’.

Rythian arrives, and comically ignores Ravs. This devastates him so much that Ravs ends up on the floor, clucking pathetically by Rythian’s feet when Rythian is settled on the couch. He only takes notice then. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He just wants attention from you,” Zoeya explains, with a grin. “He’s never forgotten you! Did you know that he stole my ECHO device when he heard your voice? Carried it off by the strap and tried to make a nest with it.”

“Oh, so that wasn’t just you making chicken noises,” Rythian says. He deigns to reach down and lift Ravs onto his lap, patting him amiably on the back. 

Ravs’ head swivels so fast that Rythian almost hears a whip crack. He starts pressing his beak to Rythian’s hand in an impressive display of affection, complete with a flurry of fast, warbling clucks.

When Rythian goes upstairs, Ravs flaps after him. He attempts to make a nest on Rythian’s bed by kicking at the blankets and sprawling across them, giving off an inviting air. Rythian teleports him back downstairs and closes his door, causing Ravs to scream in displeasure.

\--

The wedding planning and execution spans a few months, owing to the many events Zoeya and Saberial have to cram if they want to have a successful wedding. No wedding would be complete without a ridiculous tiered cake, outfits, a theme, the best people (there’ll be no ‘maids’ or ‘men’ at this classy gig), buffet and of course, music. 

And of course, Ravs the rooster is the best chicken and ringbearer. Zoeya picked out a tux and bowtie, custom fitting it just for him.

Everyone who’s been sent an invite responded enthusiastically to the date set, save for one person: Teep. For a person always on the move, they’re unusually prompt about responding to invites. Nothing but radio silence meets Saberial a week after she posts the ‘RSVP the date’ notice.

It doesn’t hit her until later (just before the wedding is about to happen, actually) that there might be something dreadfully wrong.

\--

Teep and Panda drop by the farm after the engagement’s been announced. Panda’s been dodging the mercenary meet-ups, earning more ire than usual. They’ve blocked more than half of their relatives. Said relatives reroute their querties to Saberial, who shrugs and says that she’s not Panda’s keeper, no matter how close they are. That also puts them firmly on the ‘no invite’ list that’s steadily growing by the day.

Zoeya greet Panda and Teep as their two ships touch down onto the pads. Panda’s the first to appear, Teep following shortly after. Nothing’s changed about their appearances, save for the black jackets that mark them as Vault Hunters on  _ The Blackrock. _

“Hi, sis, what’s up?” Panda gives a lazy wave of their hand, grinning.

Teep similarly greets her, not bothering with a wave. Saberial would grace them both with a bear hug, but there’s an important introduction to make.

She can hear Ravs the rooster clucking moodily behind the back door, curious about why his beloved lesbians have left him behind  _ and _ had the nerve to shut the door on him.

“Panda, Teep, I want you to meet Ravs the rooster. He’s very important to us, so please promise me that you’ll try to get along with him.” Sabarial waits until the two have nodded. No reaction to the naming convention, which leads her to believe that Ravs the rooster’s fame has spread amongst the other Vault Hunters. That, or they’re impossible to surprise.

Zoeya unlocks the door. Ravs the rooster picks his way over the doorframe. He halts, eyeing up Panda and Teep. No screaming. Yet. A good sign but maybe that’s because Zoeya pulled up both Teep and Panda’s photos to introduce Ravs to them, and patiently asking him ‘no screaming, okay?’.

Panda beams, crouching down. “Hi there!” He turns to Saberial. “He’s a lot smaller than I expected. Sick scar though.”

Ravs throws out his chest. “Uwu!”

“He says ‘uwu’ as well! Say ‘wow’ for me!” Panda is enjoying this, offering a bit of cracked corn; how they have it, Saberial has no idea, unless they had the foresight to pick some up for Ravs on the way.

Ravs carefully scratches at the ground, contemplating Panda’s request. “W...ow,” He finally says, dragging out the sound. 

Pleased, Panda dumps a small pile of corn at Ravs’ feet, eliciting a flurry of happy pecking and clucks.

Teep keeps their distance, merely watching. Zoeya sidles up to them. “I thought you’d be happy to reunite with Ravs!” She jokes.

“I didn’t want to meet his cock ever again,” They sign, sarcastically.

Zoeya snorts. “He’s perfectly well behaved! And he won’t hurt you.”

Ravs the rooster’s noticed Teep, approaching him with a spring in his step. He circles Teep, possibly wondering why they’re so silent. Or if they’re hiding treats. Teep pulls out a laminated photo, unfolding it.

Zoeya and Saberial gasp. It’s a photo of Rythian, taken during one of his seminars. Ravs the rooster snaps to attention, fixated onto the photo. Teep moves the photo left. Ravs’ head follows it. Teep moves it right. Ravs’ head drifts after it. 

Teep drops the photo in front of Ravs. Ravs pounces on it. He grips a glossy edge in his beak, dashing off with his precious prize around the side of the house. Saberial peers around the corner.

“I think he’s making a nest for the photo, judging by the noises coming from his coop,” Saberial explains. Zoeya and Panda crack up. Teep remains stoic, shrugging.

Teep and Panda are staying for a couple of weeks, and in that time, they’ll housesit and help out with the wedding chores. Strife and Sherlock have fallen over themselves in arranging a decent schedule aboard  _ the Blackrock. _ Maybe someone should suggest side careers as wedding planners to them.

Teep takes one look at the wish list for gifts, and has it finished in less than an hour. The only reason why Zoeya and Saberial know is that Teep’s tacked receipts onto the whole list. That, and Panda’s indignant yelling.

“You have to leave something for me to get!”

> lol

“Teep, you didn’t have to!” Zoeya’s incredibly grateful, but that must have been a strain on their wallet. She remembers how they hadn’t accepted a single dollar from her in all the time they’d worked as her research assistant.

Strife has no argument with it; he cited ‘okay but only because you held a gun to my head while i’m writing up the to-do list.’

Teep’s response was ‘I’m so glad you understand how important this is to me’, and left it at that without further injuring or threatening Will Strife.

“Well, not everyone is rolling around in cold, hard cash,” Teep signs, as if that explains how they’d easily dropped that money on wedding gifts.

“Can’t you even share?” Panda’s visibly sulking, kicking at the floor.

“With you?” Teep appears to consider, tilting their head briefly. “No.”

Panda grimaces, pulling out a pistol. “Then we’re doing this the hard way.”

> it was always gonna be the hard way ;)

“Not in the house!” Saberial hustles the two outside if they insist on duelling for wedding gift privileges.

\--

\- / / NOW PLAYING ECHO LOG. / / -

Rythian: Can I give you two a painting? I’ve picked up some more art techniques, and I think I’ve gotten pretty good at oils.

Saberial: We’d love that!

Zoeya: Only if you add Ravs the rooster to it!

Rythian: ...Do I have to?

Saberial: He’s our son.

Zoeya: You can’t leave our son out of the family portrait!

Rythian: Would you like me to add your collection of air plants too?

Zoeya: That would be amazing!

Rythian: That was sarcasm, but I’ll do my best. Please send me the reference photos, preferably the ones Ravs hasn’t eaten yet.

Teep: …

Rythian: What do you mean I can’t do a painting? A painting’s fine, isn’t it?

Teep: …

Rythian: JUST LET ME JUST HAVE THIS ONE WEDDING GIFT, SINCE YOU WON’T LET ANYONE ELSE GET ANY!

Teep: …

Rythian: PLEASE?

Teep: …

Rythian: Oh haha, very funny, ‘I should have him beg more often’, they sign.

Ravs: I dunno about that!

Teep: …

Rythian: THANK YOU.

Zoeya: Oh look, here comes chicken Ravs. He looks like he wants to say hi!

Rythian: I suddenly remember that I have important things to do. Goodbye!

Saberial: Don’t be like that!

\- / / NOW ENDING ECHO LOG. / / -

\--

The wedding takes place on a planet set aside for wildlife preserve. The reservation went through, and it was selected in part due to its role as a neutral ground, and as a slice of the universe untouched by the machinations of mankind. That’s how the brochure described it.

Saberial can finally dispose of the napkin she’d been scribbling on. It’s the same one she kept from Pandora while recovering in Lalnable’s clinic. Disgusting, but she’d been careful to keep it in one piece. On it lay her ideas for the wedding (and honeymoon, by extension) with the woman of her dreams. 

It’s fortunate that Zoeya didn’t have very many strict ideas about said wedding and honeymoon, and as cheesy as it sounds, so long as Saberial’s walking down the aisle with her, she didn’t care.

Panda still hasn’t found Teep, and Saberial and Zoeya still trust them to bring the idiot to the wedding. They can’t stall such an important event, and Saberial and Zoeya are too busy to continue fretting.

Ravs the rooster is decked out in a tiny tuxedo. He’d been given a bath and shampoo earlier in the morning at the hotel. He’s also registered as Zoeya’s emotional support animal, and after many a beach walk with Rythian, and grocery store trips, has grown accustomed to being tethered on a leash.

He’s currently sitting on the bed, in a handcrafted nest of towels. He’d been kicked out of Rythian’s room for sneaking into said room and crowing right next to Rythian’s face at the crack of dawn. It hasn’t dampened his spirits in the slightest, though.

Rythian’s dressed in a fantastic velvet suit, the colour of royal purple. When asked about it, Rythian stared off into the distance, and muttered something about ‘Nanosounds, Ravs and Will’, which explained it perfectly.

Zoeya’s family is also assembled in the reception hall, mingling with Saberial’s side. Since it hadn’t been feasible to invite all of the mercenaries, Saberial had trimmed down her guest list to immediate family, including mother dearest. She’s currently chatting up Nanosounds’ Mother. They’re ‘gal pals’, according to the snippets Nilesy feeds the two.

Zoeya’s guest list is small, homey gathering of close knit friends and family. Saberial’s bounced between the farm and them; the initial introductions had been fantastic, and nobody batted an eyelid at her occupation and the shift from mercenary to farmer.

They’re all quite taken with her, complimenting her physique and dedication, plus all the scars she’d accumulated. Zoeya had been rather flustered on her part, more so than usual when faced with teasing about ‘not dropping by to let us know sooner’, and the interrogations about how they’d met and all that.

And the big day is here, and they’ll all be Saberial’s family and friends too.

Zoeya didn’t mind having Saberial’s relatives be a part of her life, but Saberial’s stipulated that she’s ‘not to be dragged into any affairs that don’t involve animals and all that’, which is also a rule to get a wedding invite.

The Vault Hunters are also behaving themselves. None of the bandit crewing  _ The Blackrock _ are present, save for Parvis and his three lieutenants, Daltos, Arsenal and Ravs. It’s weird to see everyone in formal gear. Everyone’s mingling, and still, Panda and Teep are nowhere in sight.

Sherlock makes the announcement for people to move to the altar room, and Rythian murmurs ‘good luck’ before he’s vanished. Ravs the rooster mourns his leaving with one sad cluck before Zoeya picks him up. 

He’s as light as ever, and smells of flowers. She sets him on the floor. He has the ring boxes strapped to his back by way of a velcro patch (thanks, Lalna, for that ingenious invention).

Zoeya doesn’t remember leaving the room, but she’s now standing next to Saberial, having pledged to stay together until death did them apart, the ring’s on her finger and she’s about to smooch her beloved.

The door to the room clicks open. 

“I object!” A familiar voice booms down the aisle. 

“Who?” Pausing, Zoeya, Saberial and everybody else swings their gazes over. Panda and Teep step in, weary and dressed in their best (that is, not at all).

“You can’t kiss the bridge until we’re here, and now that we are, you can go ahead.” Grinning, Panda gives off a comical bow before dragging Teep to a couple of free seats at the very back.

“I’ll smack them both later,” Saberial grumbles. She looks right into Zoeya’s eyes.

“Kiss me, and seal the deal,” Zoeya whispers.

They kiss. There’s a lot of hooting, stomping, whistling and cheers after that, and then it’s another reception (how many does a wedding need anyway?) so they can have dinner, cut the cake and open gifts.

Saberial has no time to accost Teep but that’s fine. Rythian and Ravs are already on the case. She’ll find the time later.

Before the dinner, Panda takes to the stage to give a brief speech. They tap the microphone on its stand. “Hi, y’all might know me as Panda, the best bounty hunter in the galaxy. I’m here to give a gift to the newlyweds, since one’s my big sister.” They shift, watching their mother with unusual calmness; Panda’s always tense whenever they talk to family, but it’s like a weight’s been lifted off their shoulders. They’re grinning again, almost bouncing on their heels, impatient. “Congrats, sis, you’re now the head of the clan, not me. I’m a Vault Hunter now.” Panda nods and steps off the stage, to the uproar of the entire clan.

They’re striding off to get cake, and Saberial can see her mother gritting her teeth and her siblings shaking their heads. A couple blink, perhaps wondering if it’s all one big joke.

But she’ll sort it all out, since today is her and Zoeya’s big day.

“What, no knife to cut the cake?” A chainsaw revs and purrs, causing a few people scream. “I got this!”

“Panda!” Saberial yells, launching out of her chair.

\--

The post-wedding celebration is everything a bandit could dream of: food, booze, gifts, contests, music, and dancing. Only a bandit could find the lack of fire and swearing something to complain about, but no bandits are present.

Giggling, Zoeya brandishes the bouquet like a knife, swatting Saberial with it. Loose flower petals rain onto the altar and carpet. Saberial catches her wrist and moves it closer to her. 

“Ready?” Zoeya shouts.

The married duo lob the bouquet into the crowd. Except, the crowd forgot that Saberial is one of Ravs’ designated champion of keg throwing and arm wrestling. The bouquet misses outstretched hands, arcing towards the buffet table.

Zylus flings a hand out to emphasise a point as Daltos rolls his eyes and scoffs. The bouquet rustles as he retracts his hand, not realising what he caught until it slaps him in the chin. Blinking, Zylus trails off, his eyes wandering downwards. Daltos raises an eyebrow. The watching crowd groans in disappointment, breaking up.

“Don’t look so hopeful, I’m not marrying you,” Zylus scowls. Daltos frowns.

Zylus doesn’t see it, busy handing the bouquet to a passing Rythian, who helplessly glances around him. A stealthy Dick hops up, swiftly yanking it out of his hands and devouring it in one gulp, rocky tail wagging the entire time. Rythian deadeyes Dick. Dick waddles off to reunite with Arsenal, who’s busy balancing empty wine glasses in a wobbling pyramid on a table. 

Parvis and Sparkles quietly wheel in a metal gong from another room, making their way towards him.

Watching Zylus leave, Daltos grabs a glass of Dionysian wine from a waiter, downing it in one go. The surprised waiter takes the empty glass back.

Ravs spots him and weaves his way over. “Hey!”

“Ravs! You’re definitely the last person I want to see right now,” Daltos says.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Ravs says. He moves to stop Daltos from escaping, blocking him in with his body. “I just came to check up on you.”

“Well, you’ve come for less,” Daltos thoughtfully says, before laughing.

“Indeed, which you’d know all about.” Ravs nods, keeping one eye on Zoeya and Saberial. They’re bickering, until Saberial reaches down and detaches an object from her clothes. Ravs perks up. “Hey, hold this for me, will you?”

“Better not be your dick,” Daltos sarcastically says, stepping towards him. He takes the half-full wine glass Ravs hands him.

Ravs bumps the arm that’s holding the wine glass as the object Saberial and Zoeya threw reaches maximum height. It flips through the air, turning end over end until it lands with a miniature splash: right into the wine glass Daltos is holding.

Daltos moves to take a sip, pausing to squint at the object floating in his drink. He dips a finger in, fishing the item out to examine it. He delivers a dour ‘really?’ look at a grinning Ravs, who shrugs and winks, as if to say ‘can’t blame me for trying now, can you?’.

Several metres away, Nilesy turns Zylus so that Zylus is staring in horror at the sodden garter in Daltos’ hand. “I don’t want him anywhere near my leg.”

“Wouldn’t want to be, not in a million years,” Daltos retorts, idly spinning the garter on one finger.

“Put it on him!” Parvis yells. People begin to back him.

“Yeah, do it!” Zoeya hollers. “Please? For the newly married lesbians?”

“Just do it!” Saberial shouts.

“No,” Zylus and Daltos both say, disappointing their expectant onlookers. Both refuse to be anywhere near each other in the resulting half hour of peer pressure.

An hour later, Daltos peers at the garter in his hand. It keeps splitting into two before merging again. The sight makes his brain whimper in pain. It also feels like whoever’s controlling his limbs is very bad at it; they’ve gotten his strings tangled.

“Ravs, I know what you’re doing, and frankly, my once dear beefcake, I don’t give a single damn,” Daltos says.

Ravs sighs. “Come on, you know it’s for good luck!”

“We both know what you’re doing, and it’s not going to work,” Zylus says. His glass feels too empty in his hand, and while he’s less drunk than people would assume, he’s tipsy enough to not give a shit.

Arsenal swaggers over, sensing that he’s needed but not wanted. “I will give you both fifty bucks for you,” He points at Daltos, “To put the garter on,” His finger moves to land on Zylus, “Him!”

“Deal,” Daltos and Zylus agree. Ravs gives Arsenal a sore look for succeeding. Arsenal fist pumps into the air.

Daltos plonks his sixth wine glass on a nearby table. He unsteadily holds up the garter. Zylus hitches up a pant leg, revealing black socks. 

“Really, Zylus, black socks to a wedding?” Daltos observes.

“Shut up, I only have black socks,” Zylus says, blaming his blush on the booze he drank several minutes ago. “It’s not bad luck!”

“Get on with it, you two!” Arsenal interrupts.

“Okay, no, what if we both really end up with each other?” Daltos yanks his hand back at the last second, looking unusually worried.

“We’re not doing that right now?” We’re more or less,” Zylus says as he brings up his hands to sign ‘fucking’, courtesy of Teep. 

“But what if you want more? What if  _ I _ want more?” Daltos continues.

Zylus rolls his eyes. “Well,  _ do _ you?” He impatiently asks.

Daltos opens his mouth. He shuts up, frowning. He slaps the garter onto Zylus’ leg, tearing across the room to barge out into the hallway.

“I’ll go and make sure he’s not throwing up blood in the bathroom. Again.” Arsenal spots Zylus’ expression. He laughs. “Just kidding! Here’s your money.”

Arsenal jogs off to join Daltos. Ravs sheepishly smiles at Zylus. “It’s okay, you won’t remember this come morning.” 

Zylus would have loved to point out that he’s wrong; he’s only acting drunker than he really is to throw everyone off.

In the bathroom, Daltos sluices water into the sink. He splashes a generous amount onto his face, washing it. He refuses to look at his reflection, closing his eyes. “I do,” He quietly sighs.

Welp, there goes his day old vow to stay off the booze. He couldn’t help it, needing it to dampen his anxieties about marriage. He’s happy for Zoeya and Saberial, surprised at all to even get an invite despite not knowing them all that well.

“Lemme help you out there,” Arsenal says, popping up next to him. Daltos doesn’t deck him in surprise, merely eyeing him with suspicion. “Garçon!” Arden trots in, throwing up a marker into Arsenal’s hand. Arsenal tugs on Daltos’ hand, scribbling ‘I do’ in loose cursive across his palm. “Ta-da, that’s so you’ll remember in the morning!”

“I don’t want to marry Zylus,” Daltos mutters, staring at the writing on his hand.

“You don’t have to, but boy, it’d sure make things easier on both of you?” Arsenal pats Arden, fixing Arden’s crooked bowtie. He tightens the collar it’s attached to, dismissing Arden with a cheerful pat. Arden bounds out the bathroom to continue terrorizing people for scraps by being cute.

“No, you don’t get it,” Daltos says, trying to rub off the marker with water and soap. “Look, if I’m getting married to him, it has to be  _ his _ decision.  _ He _ has to marry me, not the other way around. His feelings are more important than mine, and he has a lot of work ahead of him before he can make up his mind.”

“Right, right, but how do  _ you _ really feel?”

Daltos pauses in his scrubbing. “I don’t want people to think he’s ‘fixed’ me just because he likes me, and I don’t want people to think that I’m sharing a room with him because I feel too guilty about everything that happened, or taking pity, or trying to help him get better because I’m  _ not, _ ” Daltos says. “I’m just making things worse by just sticking around.”

“People can’t think that he’s ‘fixed’ you, ‘cause there’s nothing to fix.” Arsenal slaps both his hands on Daltos’ shoulders. “And nobody’s thinking that last bit.” His hands slither up to his face. “Hey, bro, buddy, pal? _The_ _Blackrock_ wouldn’t be flying and kicking ass if it weren't for you. If you weren’t doing good earlier, you’re doing great now.”

“Then explain why he currently doesn’t want to be in the same room as me unless we’re about to sleep or working.” Daltos shakes his head, dislodging Arsenal’s hands.

“I dunno, I’m not Zylus, so I can’t say for sure what’s going on inside that head of his,” Arsenal muses. “But if I  _ was, _ I’d maybe think that I have a lot of feelings about you, not all of them nice or fun, but I still like having you around since you’re good for me and maybe vice versa, but am super bad about showing it. Maybe I’m still sidestepping around being honest and every single time I see you, it reminds me of that so that’s why I'm avoiding you.”

“Get out of Zylus’ head,” Daltos threatens after a stunned, pregnant pause. He raises his hands, curling them into fists, imitating a boxer’s stance. “Or I’ll fight you in this fucking bathroom.”

“No, you can’t hit someone this pretty!” Arsenal backs towards the bathroom door. “It’s a crime to deface this work of art!”

“The only work of art worth leaving alone is the Boner tattoo you’re sketching out for your back!”


	4. part four.

Panda’s ship is still named ‘BigDickJohnson’, a name that earns them strange looks whenever they dock anywhere. Panda’s used to it, though they have a feeling it amuses Teep. They can imagine Teep smirking under the covers of their face wrappings, reveling in Panda’s humiliation whenever the two take trips together. They take trips together  _ a lot. _

They’re making up for lost time. Panda’s optimism survives despite being trapped in a ship for days at a time. It dragged the two of them together even closer, something that no death obstacle course could hope to achieve even on the highest difficulty.

Persistence is one of Panda’s greater traits and failings. So far, Teep’s just as chill as they are online. Save for their music. It’s the golden rule that whoever’s piloting controls the tunes. In a cot, Panda’s flicking through one of their romance novels, trying to block out every beat of Teep’s house music.

The hot stove boils two minute noodles, keeping it warm until Teep gets the ship onto a stable course and can run autopilot. Panda’s autopilot isn’t the greatest of programs, not since Panda exposed it to VR and gave it coordinate sickness. They still have to debug it, but haven’t had time.

Missions keep piling up and so far, Teep shows no signs of wanting to slow down for something as simple as a debug. That’s one other thing about Teep; Teep doesn’t like stopping for anything beyond resupplying. They don’t even stop for sleep.

“Can I change to my playlist?” Panda shouts, throwing aside their novel into a wall compartment. 

“Not until my new playlist is done, or we switch,” Teep signs over one shoulder.

“But you have six hundred and ten songs left on yours!” Panda’s indignant observation has Teep appearing to chuckle.

“Just for you, I’m adding one more song.” As if on cue, the song fades. Another one plays. 

Panda taps their boot to the beat, almost forgetting their original ire. “Nice, this one’s a banger– THAT’S NOT THE POINT, I NEED MY OLD ASS TUNES TO LIVE!”

“Then perish,” Teep simply signs.

“I’ll burn your noodles,” Panda threatens, twitching their hand. The dial for the heat rattles on top of the portable cooker.

“You wouldn’t, because the only thing left to eat on this ship is ass, and I’m not eating any ass, especially not yours.”

“Good to know that if I died right now, you wouldn’t touch my ass, but okay, I wish we had those braids I saw in that bakery we passed three light years back–“

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You know, those breads shaped like hair?” Panda pauses to draw a mental picture. Teep’s swung around to watch them. “Oh wait, maybe I’m thinking of something else.” Panda throws their hands up in the air. “Man, I wish braids were edible.”

“You know, that’s not the worst thing you’ve ever said,” Teep muses.

“Then what’s the worst thing I’ve ever said?”

“I douche like a queen,” Teep quotes, finishing the signing with a deadpan flick of their wrist. Panda cracks up, honestly cackling. Teep appears to roll their eyes.

The cot creaks as Panda leaves it with the noodles in hand, hobbling over to Teep. They lean on the pilot’s chair, watching the compass update itself every light year. Teep snaps on the autopilot, accepting the noodles (no spice powder, or else Panda’s going to end up duct taped to the cot again). “Man, crashing with you was the best idea.”

> i dunno you snore sometimes

“Fuck off, you weren’t seriously gonna vent me out the airlock that one time, were you?”

> was gonna but then you woke up

“You’re not as big of a douchebag as you make yourself out to be, and I know because you didn’t vent me even if you had your hand poised on the button.” Panda says all this between mouthfuls of slippery noodles.

> thats bc you still owe me money

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll pay you back soon.”

> thats what you always say

Panda pats the chair; they don’t want to risk accidentally knocking Teep and pissing them off, no matter how confident Panda is in defending themself.

\--

It’s as late as...well, ever, when Panda is shaken awake. Panda doesn’t like being woken up for anything, unless it’s food, to take a piss, or free shit, or a life threatening emergency. Somehow, seeing a wide-eyed Saberial falls into the last category. 

Panda drags themself upright, rubbing their remaining eye with a hand. “What gives, barging into my room?” Lingering sleep doesn’t keep the annoyed note out of their voice.

Saberial is nice enough to wait until Panda’s semi-awake. She looks like she’s been running from one end of the frigate to another, sweat sticking her forehead and arms. Her shirt’s clinging to her chest. She’s not supposed to be here either, preparing for her wedding. Panda throws a spare towel over. She wipes down her face, chugging water from a canteen.

“I’ve just been over every inch of this frigate, and I can’t find Teep anywhere.”

“Teep’s probably crashing in their room, you know what they’re like–“

“They’re not in there!” Saberial interrupts, shaking her head. It sends droplets of sweat flying everywhere. Once she suggested cutting it, and Zoeya dropped to her knees and begged her not to. Saberial dumped the idea faster than Panda could go ‘do it.’

“Did you look real good?” Panda blinks. They peek into the local chat; Zoeya’s asking people if they’ve seen Teep. People chime in citing variations of ‘nope’, ‘nothing’ and so on.

“I even checked underneath their bed,” Saberial insists.

“You called them yet?” Panda grabs their shirt, pulling it on over their head. 

“I’ve tried! They’ve taken their ECHO device offline.”

“There’s ways to track a device that’s turned off–“

“Can’t, because I have it here,” Saberial flatly says. She holds out said device. Panda takes it, switching it on; it’s been wiped clean, which means that Teep’s operating solo for real.

“Oh.” ‘Shit’ doesn’t even describe the growing horror inside Panda at the revelation that Teep’s vanished. It shouldn’t even be possible on a frigate crewed by about a hundred people but Teep’s amazing at vanishing; if they don’t want to be found, they don’t want to be found.

Panda whistles through their teeth, scratching their head. “Maybe they’re logged in elsewhere.”

“Pyrion and Xephos tried looking. Nothing.” Saberial looks so upset that Panda automatically leans over to pat her shoulder in spite of how sticky it is. “It’s a month until the wedding! They promised they’d be there!”

“Maybe Teep had to deal with an emergency?” Panda volunteers.

“Teep doesn’t do ‘emergency’ like normal people do,” Saberial says, chewing over each word like it’s skag jerky.

“How do you know?” Panda challenges. They find their eyepatch dangling from their jacket pocket. They slip it into place, their depth perception shifting back to one that they’re more familiar with.

“The only emergency they’d deal with is us, and Rythian confirms that there’s nothing at the moment. He’s combing the frigate with Ravs and Zylus right now.”

“Is anything missing from their room?” Panda asks.

“What do you mean?” Saberial frowns.

“Like...clothes, food and stuff? Guns, especially Godfinger.” Panda packs up their inventory, chucking items into it. Saberial moves to their bed.

“I found Godfinger in the case under the bed.”

“This is pretty serious, then,” Panda concludes grimly. “They’d never leave that rifle behind.”

“But they took their shield with them.”

“Did you ask Vox?”

“Vox says they promised not to tell. Zylus is working on it.”

“Alright.” Ready, Panda turns to her. “Lemme into Teep’s room.”

Teep’s room is in one of the quieter hallways, positioned by a hanger. Panda’s room is on the other side and upstairs; neither have to hike very far to their ships, given how often they’re coming and going. Panda checks the hanger bay; Greenman is still docked, offline. Another bad sign; Teep is still attached to the ship, even if they gave it away and only just got it back from Zylus months ago.

Panda licks their lips and enters the door code to Teep’s room. Teep didn’t let many people into their room; the list didn’t exceed more than five or six people, Panda included.

Their room’s minimal, befitting their military background. Teep didn’t collect many personal possessions, save for the stuffed toys Ravs and Rythian got them, and all the loot Panda regifted them upon reunion. Panda checks the case under the bed (made, doesn’t look slept in) first. They haul it out; it’s a heavy thing, meant to protect the contents through an atmosphere drop, weather, being shot at, and anything the universe threw at it. It’d even survive a black hole, or so the ads claimed.

Godfinger, a legendary black and red Jakobs sniper rifle rests amongst the padding. The polish gleams; not a fingerprint or scratch mars it. Panda fights back envious drool and reseals the case, pushing it back under the bed. It’s not theirs for the taking.

Teep has a desk like anyone else does. Panda’s surprised that they’d have a hipster travel board resting on the wall above it. Multiple brochures are spread out across the desk, and a bottle of sleeping pills rests next to the strewn pile.

Panda inspects the seal. It’s cleanly broken, the rim worn blunt and cracked along the lower, teethed half. They give the bottle an experimental shake; the contents rattle. Panda guesses that it’s still got half of the pills in there, pills that Panda knows that Teep takes when the sleep bug doesn’t bite and Teep really, really needs to catch some shut eye before they have another one of their insomniac episodes.

The first time Panda caught Teep having one of those, Teep had finished a reportedly two week long, story driven game in three days.  _ Platinumed _ it, too. Sleep isn’t for the weak, and any mercenary’s aim goes to shit if they can’t keep their grip steady or eyes awake. Microsleeps mid-battle have taken more lives than drunk pilots. 

It took two weeks of nagging from Panda before Teep came back with a repeat prescription from Lalnable, and another week before they tried the first pill.

Teep takes the heaviest stuff, the same stuff that Panda’s great-uncle takes. Teep doesn’t make taking the pills a big secret; they didn’t keep very many secrets from Panda, not after Pandora. It’s like they’re inviting Panda to put a bullet through their head while they slept. Panda’s old urges flutter, enticing, but no, that time’s passed.

Panda stows the sleeping pills in their inventory and moves onto the brochure.

Panda picks up the prettiest one up, flipping it open with a push of their thumb. It’s a three pager, detailing a jungle trip for the low low price of five hundred dollars per person. Teep loathes humidity just as much as snow and desert. Panda replaces the brochure, selecting another to browse. This one’s to one of the Edens (and in Panda’s opinion, badly designed with how little parking there is). That’s more to Teep’s urban, foodie taste, but with how fast they vanished, the Edens are beyond  _ The Blackrock’s _ reach.

None of the other brochures contain any hints. Frustrated, Panda flips the entire lot over. On the back of one brochure is a thin strip of black that Panda would have thought was a kit spill. Panda swipes their thumb over it; it’s dry. They drag it closer for a proper look; it’s too deliberate to be random.

Pushing their eyepatch up, Panda boots up their cybernetic eye, switching it to tracking mode. Their eye loads up a pattern recognition program Pyrionflax made while drunk on nine shots of Minty’s homemade vodka, useful for dealing with mechanical foes.

Panda pushes brochures into place, following their eye’s directions. It’s a weird minigame, and Panda’s played a lot of games in their life. Their eye powers down once they’re staring at a completed puzzle. They let out an enraged shout, slamming their hands onto the table and making everything on it jump.

“‘Stop going through my stuff, John,’ I don’t know what  _ else _ you want me to do!” Panda yells, grinding their teeth as they glare at the offending bits of recycled paper.

In the local chat, Ravs and Rythian ask for information regarding Teep’s whereabouts. Panda mutes the chat; they’d hoped the two would turn up with Teep but at this point, Panda doubts that they’re still on the frigate.

Flopping onto Teep’s bed earns them a nice view of the travel board. Panda grumbles. “Why’d you leave us all hanging like this, what’s got you so worked up that you’d ditch us before the wedding?”

Lacking anything else to do (the bathroom is bone dry and the closet doesn’t have shit in it, not even a single dust bunny hiding within), Panda gazes at the travel board. All six galaxies are spread out, sectioned into each megacorporation’s respective territories. The frigate is a marker of its own; they’re between Dahl held homeworlds at the moment.

Moving to the board, Panda picks out their own homeworld in a heartbeat, using a finger to find it nestled in its own cluster of stars. Across from that is a dead zone, a dumping ground for scrap and clutter that didn’t fit in anywhere else in the galaxy. And opposite all that is a trade route, splitting off into hundreds of lanes spanning to each corner of the galaxies. They’re wasting time, checking out the travel board like this but it’s oddly calming.

There’s pins marking each celestial object and attraction. Panda squints at the pins. There’s a few marking Hecatoncheires, plus a couple tacked to its neighbour, Hera. Panda’s cybernetic eye itches; they lift the eyepatch, letting it do its thing.

It makes a list for Panda, throwing up the number of pins next to each planet, star or whatever’s on the board. Panda scans the list, hope growing as they read down all the names. Wow, Teep’s been to a lot of places. There’s no obvious dates for each pin, each one purely cosmetic than informative. There’s Pandora! Teep hasn’t been back though.

Panda sighs, shaking their head. Below that, a single planet remains the sole outlier: Hecaerge. It’s pinless. Panda glances at the rest of the board, then at the planet itself. They reach for their ECHO device.

\--

Light years away, Teep trudges up a the side of a mountain. They lug the body of a four-legged, furry beast with horns that trailed up to the sky back to camp. They skin it, obtaining the meat and dumping the rest into storage for trading later.

When they stand, they can see the untouched wilderness stretching out as far as the eye can see. Trees with furry needles blur into each other to form an ocean of greenery dotted with snow.

Teep hasn’t been camping since they were six years old. It’s the kind of camping involving their spare ECHO device into an indestructible lockbox setting it to automatically open after a week of surviving solo. Also, it’s not about what Teep has to offer the wild, it’s what the wild can offer Teep.

They sit down at the base of a tree, fingers fiddling with the fasteners to their hood, face and goggles. They drop their shield into their inventory. The cold wind cards its fingers through Teep’s hair, caressing their face and the blistered skin around their eyes.

They can breathe easy out here, if it’s just them and the wild. Tired of the chill, Teep returns their shield to their belt. It’s midway between summer and spring; easy kills are plentiful. Teep’s not squeamish, and whatever they don’t finish, they leave behind as scraps.

No camp is permanent, and that’s how Teep likes it. Home for them is where they feel safe, and if they can carry home with them no matter where they go, then there’s no reason to look back and regret leaving. They can’t take people with them, though.

Teep busies with restringing their bow. They bought this bow and a stash of arrows from a passing trader a few days ago, in exchange for all of the silken furs Teep collected on their hunts. They haven’t done this in decades, but it’s all coming back to Teep with a little practice.

Teep notches an arrow, checking the imaginary sights on the bow through their good eye. Guns are easier; bows don’t have the attached sights to help gauge distance, or how much force it takes to bring down a foe…

They contemplate how much use a bow would be on Pandora. Probably next to useless. Teep went for this route because they want to be stealthy. It’s also a better challenge. Granted, they still have their trusty pistol Harold holstered on their person, but to go without a sniper rifle is like lopping one arm off.

They keep moving, sticking to high ground away from camping grounds, towns and people. They never travel higher than what they can handle without an Oz kit. It’s been three days and they still can’t shake the feeling that they’re being followed as of yesterday.

On the third day of this bullshit, Teep elects to spend the night hiding in a tree. They set a trap, leaving a fire to die on its own. Staying up all night is child’s play, as is watching the dark. Doing it without a sniper rifle’s trickier. Teep manages by setting their goggles to night vision.

Panda stumbles into sight five hours later. They sigh in relief at spotting the dying fire. They glance around, checking that the coast is clear before flopping down and massaging their legs. Panda gets a proper fire going, stoking it with a stick they found.

Teep silently drops down behind Panda, stepping until the arrow that they’ve nocked is less than an arm’s length from Panda’s head. Teep deliberately scrapes their boot against a bunch of dead leaves.

“Dude!” Panda screams, lunging sideways to grab their shotgun and aim it at them. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

On Hecaerge, Teep remembers how to speak. Their mouth forms the words, their voice on the verge of reviving; they clench their jaw, swallowing all the words back down. They shoulder the bow and retrieve the arrow, signing, “What the everloving fuck are you doing here?”

Panda holsters Conference Call. “I came here to find you!” They huff, hands on their hips. “Let’s go back to the frigate or else you’re gonna miss Saberial and Zoeya’s wedding!”

“They can have their wedding without me,” Teep signs, turning away.

“You can’t be serious.” Panda’s voice is flat with disbelief. “You said you’d be there!”

“I lied,” Teep signs over one shoulder so that Panda can’t see that they’re not fucking around.

“Would you seriously lie to Zoeya?” Not to her face, but to Panda’s face, yes. Teep doesn’t respond, grabbing a lower branch and preparing to haul themself up. A rock hits the bark beside their hand. They glance up, back at the fire. Panda’s throwing pebbles up and down in one hand. “You go up that tree to avoid talking to me, I throw rocks at you all night.”

“I’ll just move trees.”

“I’ll follow you!”

“Good luck with that,” Teep signs. They scale the tree as fast as they can without knocking anything loose or falling. 

At the top of the tree, Teep makes a leap of faith. They can hear Panda hastily throwing dirt over the rest of the fire, their clumsy footsteps tramping through the undergrowth as Teep navigates the treetops as easily as a crowded city path.

Sunset sweeps the forest into darkness. Teep slows to watch their footing. The distance between them and Panda grows; the terrain is steeper on foot. Bit by bit, Panda’s cursing fades.

Once Teep’s sure that they’ve ditched Panda for good, they stay in a tree, resting their back against the trunk. They’re hidden by the foliage and by the night. They haven’t seriously exerted themself like that in a while.

They drink a mouthful of warm water, checking on their bow and quiver; both are still present. Satisfied, Teep lets their head drop onto their chest and nods off, the first time in several weeks they’ve been able to do so.

They rise at the first rays of sunlight peeking through the canopy. Hecaerge has the fortune and downside of being one of the few planets with a twenty hour cycle. Teep spends a few moments admiring the view through the needles before spotting a shape wandering in agitated circles below their chosen tree.

Panda’s blue eye glints as it searches the treetops. Teep closes their own eyes, resisting the urge to fire an arrow downwards. Be a waste of a good arrow if they did that. 

Panda hasn’t given up like the stubborn bastard they are. Teep drops from the tree, landing in front of them. Panda spooks by leaping back, gun already drawn in less than a second.

“This is a  _ solo _ vacation,” Teep signs, emphasising the ‘solo’ with a wide sweep of their hands.

“Well, now it’s co-op, whether you like it or not!” Panda snaps, yanking their eyepatch back down and holstering the gun. “I’m camping with you until you feel like coming back!”

“You wouldn’t last one fucking day out here.”

“I just spent two days tracking you. I’m doing a pretty dang good job so far,” Panda notes. “Though it seems like you’re not trying very hard to lose me.”

“You’re cheating,” Teep signs, pointing to Panda’s eyepatch.

“All fair’s in love and war. Besides, you’re just a sore loser!” Panda laughs, grinning after. They stop, frowning. “And you’re still not talking to me, your best bud! Come on, what’s biting you?”

“Nothing.”

“‘Nothing’ wouldn’t drag you away from the wedding.”

“It’s none of your business.” Teep turns away, choosing to walk instead of taking the higher route. Why bother, when Panda’s tracking them anyway?

“Your business is my business.” Panda jogs up, overtaking them. “Come on, what’s biting you?” They try again, their anxious cajoling getting on Teep’s nerves.

“We’ll talk about this if you manage to stay silent for an hour,” Teep signs. Panda looks affronted, opening their mouth. “Except in emergencies where both our lives are in immediate danger, grunts and whimpers don’t count, and you’re not allowed to communicate to any mutual buddies what’s happening here so no backup arrives.”

Closing their mouth, Panda rolls their eye and huffs. They raise their hands, signing roughly at Teep, “Will this do instead?” Teep stares at Panda. It’s like watching a kid learn how to write; Teep has enough practice to put together Panda’s crude attempts. “What? I started learning how to sign a few months back! Was gonna surprise you on our birthday but eh.”

“Why? It’s not like you have to,” Teep signs. “You could just message me instead. You can still talk, I’ll let you know when the silent curfew starts.”

Panda sighs in relief. “Messaging’s faster and all, but I wanted to grow closer to you.” They rub their back of their head, flushing slightly. “I’ve noticed nobody else bothers to sign back at you, except for Nilesy but he rarely does it, and I thought you might have gotten lonely not having a signing buddy.”

“That is hands down, the sappiest shit anyone’s ever said to me. And I’ve met a lot of saps in my sad life, but you take the number one spot as of today.”

“Hey! I’m number one in your life!” Panda beams with pride.

“Nope, that’d be Junior,” Teep corrects, bursting Panda’s bubble.

“Fine, I’m happy with second place.” Panda pouts. “But I still wanna know what’s eating you?”

“Curfew starts now.” Without waiting for Panda, Teep strides into the forest, causing Panda to curse (silently) and run after them.

\--

Teep knows where they’re going, leading Panda along an invisible trail. The trees in this part of the forest weave branches with each other, forming a sparse canopy that cast lace-like patterns on the leaf litter below.

Panda’s roughed it before back on Pandora and on other worlds, but Pandora doesn’t have any deep forests like this that swallowed up a whole mountain and if possible, the entire planet beneath it. 

Hecaerge isn’t the place to be, its entire planetary population barely fulfilling ‘inhabited’ standards. Panda did some quick reading on the flight over to get acquainted with their destination. They’d have loved to have more time to browse, but Hurricane had dropped Panda off, rushing back to  _ The Blackrock _ to continue searching for Teep.

Nobody else knows Panda’s purpose to their sudden leave, everyone assuming that it’s one of Panda’s lucrative bounty hunting jobs. They could have taken Johnson down, but Panda’s wary of leaving their ship on an unknown planet for so long without any guarantee of returning to it. Hurricane (or Hawker) knows to drop down if Panda requests a pick-up, or let Johnson do the flying out of the hanger.

Obeying the silent curfew on talking and with Teep so resilient against any prying, Panda observes their surroundings. The trees above keeps everything beneath the canopy cool, and Panda hardly has to sweat with the effort to hiking alongside Teep. Everything is vibrant and growing, untouched by destructive lifeforms. It’s quite nice, even if Panda isn’t normally a nature person.

Teep’s been walking for an hour, and Panda’s legs are building up to cramps, especially their metal capped one. The first few blisters are making themselves known. Teep eventually stops, swerving sharply to the left. Panda manages to follow without toppling over.

The two of them happen upon a small cabin set atop a series of wooden slats keeping it above ground level. Teep troops up the invisible path towards it. Panda’s not sure how they can be so confident that there’s nobody waiting in ambush for them, or if Teep’s just that good at hiding themself from other people.

Panda’s map isn’t even loading their surroundings, the ECHOnet signal so weak that it can barely manage an emergency call.

“You can talk now,” Teep signs. “Just don’t be too loud or you’ll attract the wrong kind of attention.”

“Thanks,” Panda croaks; their voice took a beating after going unused for a couple hours of steady hiking. “How are we getting inside?” They chug water briefly.

“Easy.” Teep demonstrates by picking the lock, and pushes the front door open. Panda enters first, gun cocked. There’s nothing inside, save for dust bunnies colonising the furniture.

“What, we camping now?” Panda relaxes, glancing at Teep. Teep closes the door, sweeping the other rooms; there’s not that many or any bugs, so Teep returns in a few minutes as Panda tries not to sneeze.

“You can have the other bedroom,” Teep signs.

“No snuggling to share body heat tonight?” Panda pretends to sound disappointed.

“Sorry, no,” Teep replies, without jest. “I’d be cheating on Ravs if I did that.”

“Snuggling’s not cheating!” Panda stickybeaks in the fridge. Nothing, not even expired rations.

Teep unloads all the game meat that they collected into said open fridge. Panda tests the couch. “Hey, we can stay as long as you need until you sort out what’s wrong.”

“You don’t even know what’s wrong with me,” Teep signs.

“Don’t gotta, all I know is that you need someone to believe in you right now.”

Teep turns away. Panda thinks that they can feel a sardonic smile underneath that mask of theirs. 

“By the way, you forgot these.” Panda slaps the bottle of sleeping pills down on the coffee table. The contents rattle noisily, settling after a few seconds.

“Thanks,” Teep signs. They take it, and toss it into the bin with a flick of their wrist. 

“Stop shitting on all my efforts to bring it to you!” Panda retrieves it, wiping it off with a sleeve. “You need them to sleep, right?”

“Not always,” Teep signs.

Panda drops the bottle onto the table again. “Keep them.” Teep doesn’t respond or acknowledge the pills, setting up for dinner.

Panda devotes the time waiting to cleaning up the cabin. There’s a few weeks left until the wedding, and Saberial and Zoeya trust in them to bring back Teep. By now, Saberial’s smart enough to conclude that Panda’s found a lead and is following it. They just have to trust that Saberial and Zoeya can also conclude that bringing the whole crew on a retrieval mission is the opposite of what Teep needs right now.

Dinner’s a silent affair, and lonely; Teep retreats to their room to eat in privacy. Panda thought to bring along a portable bunch of games. They set it up on their ECHO device. 

Teep returns to stretch out on another couch. They declined any help with the washing up. 

While Panda waits for the game to boot up, Panda peels off their shoes and socks, wiggling their toes. Their knee aches from overuse. A couple of nasty blisters ring one heel and the fleshy bit beneath their big toe. Poking it elicits a wince.

Panda feels Teep’s gaze on them. They try their best to ignore it. They can’t even look up how to deal with blisters thanks to the nonexistent connection. Sighing, Panda dumps their shoes in their inventory and makes do with ignoring the pain.

In a blink, Teep is crouching by them.

Panda relaxes from lobbing the controller at them, slumping back down onto the couch. “Dude.”

“I’m nobody’s dude, let alone yours.” Teep takes a hold of Panda’s foot when Panda nods after they glance upwards, seeking permission. “These look bad.” It’s like they’re subtly telling Panda off for not saying anything about them sooner.

“Not as bad as the time I accidentally walked into a bulkhead because I was too busy chasing a virtual critter for that one achievement,” Panda says, shrugging. There’s also the time they fell off a walkway chasing Teep, but bringing it up is taboo between them.

“If I pop them, you take a syringe and stay off your feet as much as possible, they should heal fast.”

“You can pop blisters?” The extent of Panda’s medical knowledge is limited to basic first aid and surviving until they can get help.

Teep doesn’t answer, pulling a first aid kit from their inventory. Panda watches them pick a needle, dousing it in rubbing alcohol. They also set a roll of gauze aside. 

Panda slams a fist into the armrest when the needle breaches the blister. Fluid drips into the cup below. Teep sterilizes the needle again, pricking the next blister. In terms of pain, it’s hardly anything to react to. Pain is pain, though.

It’s heavenly relief when gauze is applied. Panda jabs an Anshin syringe into their own arm and rests their sore leg on the footrest Teep kicks over. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Teep bids them goodnight, a touch awkwardly.

Panda refuses to believe that they’re back at square one.

\--

Lalnable runs the blood test for the third time to check. Teep bandages their fingertip with the plaster Lalnable provides, pulling their glove back on. Any appointment with him is between missions, and Teep’s never missed a single one since Lalnable promised to help them (and Rythian).

“Inconclusive, please consult manufacturer for further details,” Lalnable says, sighing. “That’s what I thought.” They dispose of the strip in the biohazard bin, and start the in-built incinerator.

“So no blood donations for me,” Teep signs.

“This isn’t a joking matter,” Lalnable grumbles. It must be serious if he doesn’t feel like snapping at the joke. “If it was any other patient, I would send the blood away to be analyzed in further detail, but that’s risking discovery of you and Rythian.”

“And?”

“You’re the only two surviving cases of a Vault inflicted mutation. Here’s what we know. It’s an Eridian mutation that supposedly grants a second chance at life, provided you survive the initial berserking and the lethal cooldown. I don’t know if it’s a genetic mutation as well, with a regeneration factor, but again, to check would be risking discovery.”

“I was able to stop my berserking with sheer force of will. Rythian had trouble with that.”

“Ideally, it’d best to avoid any type of triggers, like being shot or hurt, but I can’t stop you two from running into danger.”

“There’s also the instinctual teleporting. Again, Rythian’s field.”

“The teleporting doesn’t seem to have any adverse effects. I’ve scoured every paper I could find, and nothing says anything dangerous about long term usage of the Fast Travel, which is the closest I could find.” Lalnable paces the length of the room and back. “Your blood is also a valuable source of raw eridium. And the purest possible.” He swallows, brow furrowed. “Did you know that when I first cut into you, I was shocked that your insides and blood glowed the same colour as those shards? It stopped when it dried.”

“Could I give my blood to Rythian if he needs it? We’re both the same freaks.”

“A good question, and worth trying at some point. Would blood types matter?” Lalnable scribbles a note onto the nearest clipboard. “I’ll need to ask Rythian next time I see him. Otherwise, your body is normal. Any questions or concerns?”

“A couple, actually.” Teep points to their damaged eye. “Could I replace this with a cybernetic one?”

“Of course. I can schedule a surgery. Do you need it removed immediately?”

“No. Just making emergency plans.”

“I’ll order one and put it aside for you, if you do happen to change your mind.”

“Also, does this need to go back into my arm?” Teep spawns a metal plate, handing it back to Lalnable. It’s the same one as Lalnable screwed into the bones to hold it together, back on Pandora.

Lalnable is speechless for a few seconds. He eventually takes it from Teep. “...How did this get outside your arm?”

Teep shrugs.

“Teep. For these appointments to proceed smoothly, your utmost cooperation is recommended.”

“It disappeared from my arm when it started feeling weird. I think.”

“Please elaborate.”

“A month ago, I woke up on my ship, and you know that feeling when you’ve slept on your arm by accident for too long? It was next to me when I woke up, perfectly dry and fine. I cut into myself anyway to check.”

“Let me see your arm.”

Teep rolls up the sleeve of their jacket. Lalnable inspects the site where the break would have been, from that battle with Panda. No scar mars the skin there. Lalnable swallows. 

One scan later, Lalnable depawns the results. He massages his forehead with a few fingers, muttering in exasperation, “Completely healed. It’s remarkable.” He shoots a tired look at Teep. “And please stop performing impromptu surgery on yourself when it’s easier to have me do it.”

“I dunno, I think I’m getting pretty good at these surgeries, so maybe I should apply to be a doctor.”

“You do have one of the highest intelligence scores on  _ The Blackrock _ after all, and I’d appreciate any extra help on this frigate, qualified or not.”

“Shh, nobody else is supposed to know about how my intelligence is being super wasted chasing after Vaults and playing video games.”

“I’m not going to lecture you about a worthier use of your time and energy. I’m here to help you get better.” Lalnable pulls out a business card from his pocket, sliding it across to Teep. “She’s an acquaintance of mine. She’s a bit brusque, but you’ll find no better psychiatrist, and she’s been sworn to secrecy about  _ The Blackrock’s  _ crew. It’s up to you if you want to make an appointment.”

“I’ll think about it.” Teep sticks the card into their pocket. “Maybe pass it onto Rythian, he needs it more than I do.”

“Your health is just as much of a priority as his.” Lalnable walks around the table to sit across from Teep, to stare directly into their eyes. “No matter what, I will help you for as long as I’m able to, as your doctor.”

Teep curls the fingers of one hand, biting the bullet. “I haven’t slept properly in a month. I can’t risk clocking out on missions.”

Lalnable smiles. “Let’s start you on this one first, and you can always return to me if you feel if it’s unsuitable.”

\--

– / / NOW PLAYING ECHO LOG. / / –

Lalnable speaking. Checking that this log is secure? Secure. I am loathe to use assays and laboratory equipment kindly donated by that Hyperion meddler, Ridgedog, but the best solution to risking public and unwanted discovery is to run everything ourselves on  _ The Blackrock.  _ It took longer than I’d like to set it up and run it without consulting external help, but you can be confident that I am the only one who knows the results of the genetic and chromosomal assays.

As you’ve no doubt reassured your fellow Vault Hunters numerous times that you’re human, to what degree is currently questionable. Your mutations run much deeper than skin deep, extending into the domain of rewriting the molecular mechanisms underlying telomeric restrictions and DNA replication– I fear my notes are too scientific. Ahem, my apologies.

Put simply, you aren’t aging, and it looks like unless injuries proves too extensive for your body to return from an ascension, yours and Rythian’s lifespans will extend far beyond that of a regular human.

In light of this, I would strongly recommend returning to _The Blackrock _at the earliest possible convenience so we can discuss options for managing it.

This log will now terminate itself.

– / / NOW TERMINATING ECHO LOG. / / –

\--

It’s bullshit.

The whole immortal thing is the finest bullshit served up to them, on a steaming plate of ‘shit they never asked for’, and no amount of self reflection can talk Teep into accepting it.

It also prompted an impromptu camping trip, into the wild, no ECHO device, no friends, and no legendary gear (except for The Bee shield, since that’s cursed anyway). They didn’t need all that where they’re going.

It’s not about what Teep has to offer the wild. It’s about what the wild can offer Teep. 

Nobody suspected that they had a breaking point, but it’s set so high that when it finally did break, Teep’s reaction is to slide back into obscurity and stay there until they solved matters.

There’s only so many blood tests that they can endure, and despite knowing that it’ll be unreadable every single time, Lalnable insists on rerunning it anyway (and Teep knows about false positives and negatives, they’ve done some background reading when the insomnia flares up). The genetic lottery’s coughed up the result inflicted on them and Rythian. All that’s left is poking and prodding.

Other people are losing time. Teeps  _ gained _ time, time that they never asked for, deserved or craved. It’s bullshit, but this is what’s happening, and Teep  _ hates _ it.

Suicide’s never been an option, and Teep doesn’t want anybody picking apart their dead body for science or funsies, or coming across them in berserker mode.

Which brings them back to their goal: unfuck their head.

Going to Zoeya and Saberial’s wedding is out of the question (plus, Teep refuses to take responsibility for being a moodkiller) until they finish that seemingly impossible task.

That is, until Panda decided to butt in.

The idiot’s snoring in their bed after taking their painkillers. If they’d known that the trek would have been rough on their busted knee, then they shouldn’t have undertaken their own personal, secret mission to drag Teep back to civilisation.

It’s frustratingly endearing that they care so deeply, and so much, after everything that Teep put them through. They still refuse to kill Teep, even if Teep pushes all their buttons just because they could.

To Teep, nobody’s ever displayed such ironclad loyalty. A few others came close, but nobody’s ever tracked down Teep and was able to, with such precision and intent, for such an idiotic reason.

Maybe this is how Zoeya felt when they ran into a burning building to save her research.

This isn’t the hardest obstacle they’ve encountered in their life. They’ve conquered ditching the Dahl military, pro gaming, a bunch of Vaults, being scarred in one eye, nearly dying to a bounty hunter multiple times, getting a PhD in no time flat (thanks Zoeya, for believing in them), graduating from university (thanks Pyrionflax, for knocking out the cameras and editing the ceremony footage on the fly), surviving disguising themself as themself (thanks Ravs, Rythian and everybody who attended said graduation expecting to see them unmasked and didn’t realise it thanks to the combined power of nanopixels and make-up). 

Maybe they have accomplished more than what regular people could only dream of.

Teep avoids the sleeping pills on the kitchen table, slipping into Panda’s room. Panda’s ability to run bounty hunting mission’s is in disarray. The new leg that Panda’s testing for Bitchna (Teep’s own personal name for Lalna) is taking its sweet time to learn Panda’s own patterns and habits.

A light poke to Panda’s head causes them to mutter and sit up, sleepily. “What’s up?”

> would you kill me if you had no other option

It takes Panda a few seconds to focus and kick their brain into waking up. “What do you mean?”

> if i proved a threat to rythian and the others

“You mean if you become an unstoppable killing machine?” Panda gets it, lightning fast. They’re smart, sometimes, but miss the mark so often in other settings that people mistook them for being an idiot when in fact, Panda is actually not.

> yea

“I dunno if I could. I mean, you were practically begging me to kill you when I didn’t know you were Green.” Panda scratches the back of their head. “Does it matter to you if I did?”

> a little

> youd be the only person who could

“Rythian could, if he put his mind to it. He’s strutting the same stuff as you, right?” Panda’s putting two and two together, piecing the clues of Rythian and Teep’s mysterious ascension from only two encounters, and Teep’s vague comments about all the appointments.

> he would never kill a friend

> ravs wouldn’t let him either

> i don’t think anybody would actually

> stupid friendship

> or even could since theyre all so

> …

> i cant say it without sounding like a horrible person

“You can say it,” Panda encourages. “I won’t tell anybody.”

> weak

> they’re all too weak

“Well, you’re not wrong.” Panda shrugs. “It just means that if nobody’s up to it, I’ll do it. It matters to you, right? You’d prefer to die at the hands of a close friend instead of a complete stranger. Makes sense.” They waggle their eyebrows. “That’s also hella romantic.”

> shut up

“Is this what you’ve been worried off your ass about?” Panda chuckles, the sound not at all mocking. It’s a mild comfort to Teep, proof that Panda accepts them, flaws and all.

> i might not ever die normally either

“Do you want to die right now?” Panda gestures to Conference Call, which is sitting within arm’s reach on the bed.

Teep slowly shakes their head.

“When you want to die, let me know, and I’ll come running to help.” Panda smiles. “I’ll fix all your problems for you, no matter how big or small.” They yawn, but then slap themself on the cheeks. “Hey uh, not to rush you or anything with your crisis, but I’m here for you, even if we gotta miss the wedding.”

“Give me some more time, and help me work on a plan to deal with my rogue ascension first,” Teep signs.

“Okay, but after I get some shut-eye,” Panda yawns.

> deal

\--

Everybody bets that Ravs proposes to Rythian, being the softcore romantic that he is. When it came to the intricacies of romance, Teep doesn’t have any experience, being above and beyond that mush. 

That didn’t stop Ravs from seeking his advice about Rythian on multiple occasions, or vice versa. Teep doesn’t mind; they’re important people to each other, and it’s in their best interests to have the two keep being buddy-buddy (only joking, they’re as gay as hell for each other).

So here’s how Teep sees it: Ravs will never propose to Rythian. 

Rythian’s only serious relationship is with the person he dropped faster than an incendiary grenade many years ago, despite having the hots for him. Ravs is so accommodating and terrified of another sudden breakup that he’ll never rush Rythian, ever.

Teep is the only one who collects the winning bets when Rythian proposes to Ravs after multiple false alarms from the betting parties.

It happens on  _ The Blackrock,  _ because where else would it be? Vault Hunters aren’t picky about proposal locations, the timing and the minutiae.

Rythian stutters like a motherfucker before and throughout the whole thing. Teep knows because Rythian asked if he could privately practice with them a month beforehand. It’s not rigging the bets because nobody anticipated that he’d get the ball rolling.

Ravs is alone in his room when Rythian walks in, trying to be nonchalant. When Rythian’s nonchalant, Ravs perks up immediately due to some sort of uncanny sixth sense he has with people. He knows something’s up, and is nice enough not to press the issue. 

He didn’t even press Rythian into taking his shirt off for makeouts. Yes, Teep heard all about that too since it’s tangled up with how Rythian views his own fucked up body as being even lovable with all his hideous scars, or good enough to ravish, Ravs’ own fretting about rushing it, blah blah blah, Teep knows way too much about the two’s relationship. They’ve even accompanied the two during the dates since the two would rather include the date than skip out on missing time with Teep whenever they visit.

It makes for highly entertaining times though.

Back to the proposal. Ravs lets Rythian down on the bed next to him, and is all casual about getting into Rythian’s personal space. He’s got it down to an art form. It makes Rythian bolder since love is a natural buff (as Saberial described it, once).

“Ravs, w-would you do me the honour of becoming m-my—“ Rythian stutters.

“Your what?” Ravs smiles, not possessing a single clue about what this might be all about.

“My husband,” Rythian finishes, and looks like he’s about to teleport back into his room and hug Junior until he’s stopped embarrassing himself. As Teep kept telling him, nothing could be more facepalm worthy than Zylus’ failed proposal to Daltos, and Daltos’ proposal to Zylus and the two  _ still _ got married.

“I’d be delighted!” Ravs warmly accepts, just like that.

Rythian swoons into his arms. The two start to make out, tongues fighting for dominance as Ravs flexes out of that ratty, slutty thing he calls a vest—

“Teep, that’s not what we did after he accepted my proposal.”

Teep swivels on the bar stool to face one unimpressed Rythian. Rythian pinches the bridge of his nose. This is why he doesn’t trust Teep to retell the story to anyone, let alone newbies who’re undertaking Arsenal’s induction tour. 

The newbies are starry-eyed anyway, because who wouldn’t be, when faced with Rythian, academic superstar of anything pertaining to the Eridians and the Vaults?

Ravs leans on the bar counter. The golden wedding ring on his finger gleams in the low lighting of the bar. “Teep’s got some details mixed up. Here’s how it really went down!” 

The story of Rythian rehearsing with Teep remains, but how the proposal’s executed differs. Rythian still approaches Ravs, but instead of the slow, doomed walk he takes, he teleports into Ravs’ room instead. 

Fortunately, Ravs isn’t naked or occupied with his fancy pigeons, or nursing a sick quail back to health, or doing anything along the lines of injecting good back into the universe, please stop looking at my buff husband like that, he’s already  _ taken. _

Rythian is still incredibly nervous, still stutters like hell and manages to blurt the question, and Ravs accepts like it’s no big deal— Rythian interrupts to say that at least he didn’t teleport away before hearing Ravs out. Ravs indulges the interruption with a big, adoring grin and then adds that they did end up making out anyway.

It’s at this point that Arsenal arrives to hustle the newbies downstairs for HR presentation, now that they've managed to extract the projector from his kraggon’s mouth.

Ravs and Rythian sit quietly at the bar. Nobody else drinks at this hour. Teep hated alcohol and they’re mute to begin with, so they kind of counted, and not.

The two contemplate the storm leading up to the wedding; Rythian didn’t want it on Hecate, since that’s where his family is, and he was against all of them attending to show off their pompousness. Ravs was all for hosting it on Dionysus, his homeworld. It’d be an excellent excuse for his clan to break out their finest celebrations. Nobody did weddings better than the highland Dionysians.

Rythian began the long, tedious process of why certain people aren’t allowed to attend his wedding, and so on. Ravs left it as a free-for-all sporting and drinking tournament on his end, with his mam unconditionally invited. It’s his  _ mother _ they’re talking about here, and he can’t have her putting her back out caber tossing just to earn a front row seat to his wedding. Rythian put his work on hold (one of the few times in his life he’d willingly do so), and Ravs dragged him to his family castle to wait out the long months of planning.

At least during that time, Rythian figured how to decipher and navigate the thick accents flowing all around him. He gets Ravs’ mam talking to him, and succeeds in not embarrassing himself. He also has the impression that they’re all a little intimidated by his two degrees, lengthy scholarly pursuits being few and far between within Ravs’ clan.

Ravs was a perfect son-in-law to Rythian’s parents and the handful of siblings Rythian bothered inviting (that is, the ones least offended by him dating a former, backwater ruffian). Rythian doesn’t remember much of the wedding itself, since he’d been fueled by his anxieties about the whole thing going up in flames even during the ceremony. Ravs’ easygoingness and godly social skills soothed him and made it all durable, being the loving, attentive man he is.

Nothing was an embarrassment for future hand-me-down stories, and it goes all over without a hitch. The only kerfuffle was prior to the ceremony, his parents stipulated that in order to not be disowned and receive his rightful inheritance (not that Rythian wants it anyway, since Ravs is well off due to careful investments and doings), he needed someone to become the official executor of his final will. 

Vault Hunting is so ‘dangerous’ in their eyes anyway, and if Rythian dies? By default, all his worldly possessions will go to his family for archival and safekeeping.

There was no way in hell that he’d let them have Junior, all his thesis notes and hard work. He’d rather immolate everything, except for Junior, than let them profit off his death, blood, sweat and tears.

They’d pushed forward his closest sibling for nomination. Anticipating this subterfuge, Rythian promptly called up Teep. Teep spent about ten minutes laughing silently since it sounded like the grand plot of a blockbuster murder novel.

They accept.

Teep has a fake identity already set up from graduating university and Pyrionflax’s efforts. The fact that Teep’s fake identity being ‘Doctor T. Rex’ flies over his family’s heads. Teep ignored questions about what the ‘T’ might stand for. Teep also is immortal, so they outlive Rythian’s family so no new executor will replace them. It suits Rythian’s purposes fine, and his family is none the wiser.

> surprise binches rythian still remembers the family traditions after being estranged for a decade

“Teep, you can’t say that to their faces.”

> just did but only in our super secret private channel

> love your purple kilt btw

“Thanks, Ravs had it specially made for the wedding.”

Rythian also had a heart to heart talk about his immortality to Ravs, a month before the wedding. He felt like he owed Ravs  _ that _ particular explanation; Ravs might eventually wonder why Rythian never grew older. He’d already spouted off ‘some sweet, corny, horny shit’ (Teep’s words, not Rythian’s) about Rythian’s back scars. Ravs took it well, and didn’t say much about it, other than ‘we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, okay?’. He stayed true to his word about his matrimonial union to Rythian, immortality or no immortality.

Somehow, Rythian’s intuition itches, months after the wedding concluded. Ravs is still himself, but Rythian can sense that something bothers him. It’s probably nothing, so Rythian buries it and continues his work.


	5. part five.

Daltos steps back onto the bridge. He finds Zylus consulting Arsenal near the central pillar of displays. Spotting him, Arden bounds over, panting enthusiastically. Their tail wags to and fro as they regard him with the sappiest kind of love imaginable: unconditional.

Daltos surrenders, delivering  _ one _ pat. He crouches to talk to the kraggon in a matter-of-fact tone. “You only get one pat, because you ate my spare clipboard the other day.” He moves to join Arsenal and Zylus.

Unsatisfied, Arden resorts to snaking in and out between his legs, trying to guilt trip him into delivering more pats. Daltos has plenty of experience with Arden’s deceased parent, Minty’s Boner, and is able to reach Zylus and Arsenal without faceplanting.

Jealous that they don’t get a pat, Dick headbutts Zylus in the back of the legs, albeit gently. Zylus flaps a nervous hand at Dick, trying to get the kraggon to leave him alone. Arsenal watches, a spark of amusement evident in his eyes. Zylus looks at him for help.

“Just pat my Dick!” Arsenal insists.

Daltos grabs Dick by the collar and snaps the nearby leash on. Arden scrabbles on the floor to escape the same fate, scuttling off behind a console. Arsenal shrugs. Dick whines, trying to join their twin. The leash attached to Arsenal’s chair twangs a lonely note.

“You were naughty, so therefore, you’re back on your leashes.” Daltos tosses the other, empty leash to Arsenal.

“Ssh, daddy’ll let you off when he goes downstairs to reverse vore his coffee!” Arsenal happily says. 

Dick and Arden’s heads turn, at the same time. Arsenal realises his mistake and opens his mouth to correct his command– Dick and Arden dip their heads, regurgitating the contents of their stomachs.

Zylus stares in mute horror at the expansive collection of knick-knacks the kraggons have acquired in the span of two days. “How–“

“It’s a kraggon thing,” Daltos says by way of explanation, picking up his clipboard and shaking it off. It’s dry; kraggons didn’t drool, by nature. Arden and Dick emit an air of hoarder’s pride. He finds the plans he’d been missing, flicking to the right page. “Zylus, can I talk to you in the war room?”

“Uh, sure.” Zylus tears himself away from watching Arsenal collect all the goods, following Daltos.

Daltos leads him into the refurbished war room. Once inside, Daltos seals the blast doors. The last time he’d been in here on Pandora, he’d been the target of a successful kidnapping attempt by Vault Hunters. After that, well, his life flipped upside-down. It hasn’t been the same since.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” Zylus asks.

“The next stop we’re making is important. It’s where this frigate was built, so we’re getting it fixed there. Bebop’s got contacts who’re willing to help us out. For a price.” Daltos waits until he gets a nod before continuing. “It’s Hecatoncheires.”

Zylus’ reaction is less dramatic than he guesses. “Oh.” It’s an ‘oh’ full of thoughtfulness. Needless to say, Daltos is instantly worried.

“I just thought I’d give you a heads-up, so that you could start making plans to do whatever you want once we land.”

“How long are we staying?”

“We’ll be grounded for three months.”

“Thank you for telling me.” Zylus gives him a grateful smile.

“Yeah, yeah.” Daltos despawns the clipboard, trying not to notice how Zylus’ gaze lingers on him as he leaves the war room.

Two weeks later, the frigate docks in a shipyard. As Arsenal predicted, landing the frigate is an enormous affair; Dahl ships either went down explosively or not at all. It takes the synchronization of ten tugships to slow the frigate down for it to safely connect to the skyscraper sized braces that’ll hold it in place for the next three months.

Everybody else opts to go sightseeing, having booked a group holiday; Daltos doesn’t see the point, since this part of Hecatoncheires rains almost nonstop, so getting a tan is moot. Predictably, Zylus doesn’t go with the others.

Daltos and Arsenal stay behind to oversee the entire operation. The two tell him that he needs to get much needed rest and relaxation; Zylus maintains that he’d like to pitch in as much as he can.

After half an hour of difficult ‘negotiations’, Arsenal and Daltos agree to take some time off only if Zylus does too. Daltos doesn’t think that Zylus did that on purpose, but the idea of Zylus tackling the task by himself is preposterous and will get him and Arsenal lynched by everyone else.

Zylus finds him a few days later. He almost twists a thread loose in his jacket cuff. “Um.” He stalls when Daltos opens his door. He changes his mind, turning towards away. “Never mind.”

“Spill, something’s bothering you.”

Zylus swallows. “I want to go somewhere, but I want you to, um, be there with me.”

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

“No,” Zylus mumbles, on the verge of blushing permanently. Daltos decides to be merciful for once and lay off the teasing.

“Okay,” Daltos agrees. 

He doesn’t know what’s happening but he’ll be there for Zylus. Zylus talks no more about it. Daltos doesn’t push him, focusing on preparations to leave the frigate in Arsenal’s care.

The day arrives without much fanfare. Zylus tossed and turned in bed, twisting the sheets loose until Daltos rolled over, grabbed him and held him against his chest, Zylus’ breathing easing within a few minutes. Daltos slept lightly; he’d heard Zylus waking up early to go pee, listening to him try to sleep again and fail, miserably. 

Dick and Arden collect the two three hours later to go and meet Arsenal for a late breakfast. Everybody else left the night before to catch their midnight flight.

Zylus and Daltos leave Arsenal to sort out what colour the hallways will be repainted as; Daltos left him a pointed reminder not to choose neon pink, or else he’ll tattoo the imprint of his boot onto Arsenal’s rear. He drags Zylus out the main airlock before Arsenal can discover said message and turn it into some sort of meme. By then, it’s late afternoon.

Outside, Hecatoncheires is a permanently grey world, constant cloud cover bringing a nonstop rain that eased every few weeks. Thunderstorms are a frequent spectacle, occasional clusters of supercells attracting droves of tourists, scientists and photographers eager to witness and document the electrical mess raging in the sky.

The rain is mild, a small boon. It patters off Daltos and Zylus’ shields. The two leave the shipyard stations with everything they need for the trip loaded into their expansive inventories. While waiting for the train at the nearby depot, Daltos scans the newstands. 

Pandora is isolated from the rest of the galaxy, and the people on Pandora (those who came to it, willingly or not) generally didn’t give a single fuck about what’s happening on other worlds. Now that they’ve left Pandora, they’ve burst the bubble of ignorance. 

BebopVox passed around a summary of recent events, deeming it mandatory reading; Daltos did skim through it, but nothing jumped out at him. He doesn’t know if Zylus read his or not. 

At the time, Zylus had stuck to his own room before he’d caved into some physical need (beyond sex) that he’s shameful about. In Daltos’ opinion, wanting another warm body around to help drop off to sleep isn’t unusual, in bandit gangs. He allowed it; traumatized bandit screaming levels dropped off to ‘can be blocked off with earplugs’ level during naptimes.

“‘Bunk buddies’ is the slang,” Arsenal had told him. “That’s different to ‘bed buddies’, so don’t get them mixed up!” Daltos had given him a withering look for the afterthought combined with a knowing wink.

The planet’s quiet, eventwise. Hecatoncheires, Ares and Hera are a few of the Dahl fortified worlds; in exchange for constant surveillance and loyalty (when they demanded it), Dahl provided immediate protection, injected the economy with a wealth of jobs and services and catered to the people’s basic needs.

Daltos is always puzzled by other people comparing his childhood to theirs. They insisted he must have suffered. Sure, he, Zylus and Arsenal spent a lot of it constantly holed up in school and basic training until sixteen. But (and there’s always a but), he’d emerged with a useful degree and a guaranteed job. Minus the race to get recruits ship ready (there’d been something of a shortage then, due to offworld warring), it’d been a solid deal.

Back on Pandora, he and Arsenal had debated it until dawn.

School’s mandatory, for every child, and free; Dahl peppered kids and parents with propaganda, but on the whole, everybody steadfastly ignored it. Nobody could be  _ made _ to join, but when Dahl came around with the recruitment teams, everybody Daltos and Arsenal knew put their names down, theirs included.

“Keep them bored, and they’ll be itching to leave the planet no matter what, so bam, that’s your recruitment strategy’s already sorted.” Arsenal shrugged and patted a nesting Boner. In spite of his hypocrisy, he’d left Ares because well, why not? Also, being the youngest of many siblings meant that he could do whatever, his long suffering parents too weary to argue otherwise.

Arsenal felt that Dahl did a damn good job brainwashing their citizens. Daltos argued otherwise, and then Arsenal pointed out that Daltos  _ still _ kept all his rations hidden even if there’s no threat of starving, maintained a strict cleanliness that freaked out even the neatest bandits, and slept with a weapon hidden under his pillow. The last point, Arsenal had conceded as a necessity in bandit gangs, but still; Daltos reluctantly admitted that Dahl had fucked them up in many more ways than Arsenal had listed.

That’d explain why Arsenal revelled in his banditness and pushed Daltos to do the same, at the start. As a naturally chaotic person, Arsenal’s an effective soldier, but an even  _ better _ bandit.

“You can take the soldier out of the bandit, but you can’t take the bandit out of the soldier, or some bullshit like that, I don’t know, now shut up the fuck up and let me blow you,” Arsenal’s offhanded and annoyed quote stuck in Daltos’ mind.

Bandits didn’t also generally punish traitors by executing them in the goriest way possible. Dahl’s largely given up on punishing turncoats and deserters, whether to keep public opinion up or they didn’t care anymore. Ten years ago, it’d have been death by firing squad.

Arsenal privately asked Teep how many people made it out of Dahl when they ran. Teep bluntly answered ‘only those who live long enough to say they did, and not many who want to tip off Dahl’, which was not informative.

A soft mechanical voice smoothly announces the train’s arrival, on platform sixteen. Zylus tugs at Daltos’ sleeve. The doors part, and he follows Zylus onboard. It’d have been just as expensive to take a half hour flight, but going by train is more scenic, and takes a few hours longer.

The grav train’s designed to traverse long distances without needing to touch the ground for decades. Daltos is tempted to download the free information packet for some light reading. The mechanic inside him itches for it. Plush, comfortable seats the colour of vermillion await passengers. Zylus checks his and Daltos’ tickets, finding their assigned seats.

People gradually fill in the other seats around him and Zylus. Daltos gives Zylus the window seat. Zylus picks at his sleeve, which replaces rubbing at his eye whenever he’s thinking. A passing waiter offers refreshments. Daltos buys two items that bandits would kill to have on Pandora.

He nudges Zylus’ arm to get his attention, handing Zylus a waffle cone containing a scoop of hot pink ice cream, studded with dark curls of chocolate. Thanking him, Zylus demurely licks at his ice cream, careful not to let any drips touch his clothes. For the purposes of this trip, Daltos stayed in his bandit gear, and Zylus switched into a mix of civilian and Dahl gear.

Daltos eats his ice cream. It’s one of the small, convenient luxuries he’d missed. He chuckles to himself, earning an odd look from the passengers in the other row of seats.

Zylus crunches on the last bit of cone. “What are you laughing at?” He keeps his voice down.

“Nothing, just thinking about the fact that we’ve both gone ten years without ice cream,” Daltos wryly notes.

“You’re right. We have.” Zylus leans back in his seat, until it’s reclining slightly. He regretfully adds, “We should have aimed for fifteen.”

Daltos muffles a surprised laugh with his hand. Zylus is giving him a tentative grin, both his eyes twinkling (even the cybernetic one, somehow). The train starts to move, and the two settle down to enjoy the ride.

The closer the train carries them to their destination, the worse Zylus’ anxiety grows. Nothing distracts him, not even the rerun of one of BebopVox’s favourite romcoms airing on the mounted set in front of their seats.

He’s completely withdrawn by the time the train pulls into their station. Daltos has to physically drag him from his seat and out between the doors before the train leaves. The next station is an hour away, so getting stuck on that’s not a brilliant move.

He seats a blank faced Zylus down onto a bench. People take no notice of them. Daltos buys pastries and coffee; he uncurls Zylus’ stiff hand and carefully places the pastry in it. He settles down to wait. They’re in no particular rush to get to where Zylus wants to be. 

Zylus’ fingers curl up, rustling the thin paper, warmed by the treat. He blinks, emerging from his dissociative episode with the air of someone waking up from a long, disorientating nap.

“How did I get here? Why am I holding a pastry?“ He almost flails. 

Daltos grips the hand holding the pastry, so that a passing bird can’t have a field day with it. He can see one eyeballing Zylus, their interested stare willing him to drop it.

“I helped you step off the train, and then I bought you food.” Daltos’ explanation calms Zylus.

Even if Zylus mumbles that he’s not hungry, he still munches on the pastry. He shares what’s left of Daltos’ coffee, making a face at how bitter it is. Daltos throws the cup and papers in the bin, spooking birds into taking flight. He has a fair idea of where they’re going, but hasn’t said anything to avoid losing Zylus.

Zylus is doing an admirable job of holding himself together so far, even if he’s already had two near-misses with canceling and wanting to go back to the frigate. It’s familiar, and home. This is Hecatoncheires, former-not-quite-home, and different.

Daltos looks up the address. It’s not one he recognises. The location is twenty minutes away, provided the two of them walk fast. Beyond the train station lies a gridded cluster of suburban blocks. 

Each house is neatly set into squares, bordered by low fences or shrubs. Beneath the fences and permitted shrubbery are defensive shields, ready to spring into action if a weapon is fired. Most people regarded them as nuisances and disabled them, even if it’s technically illegal. After all, walking into a shield and getting zapped when trying to get the morning paper is a shitty start to the day.

The scenery is off-putting, all concrete and boring colours that Daltos wants the hideous sky to not be the colour of lifeless gruel; Pandora’s had been so blue, vast and endless. Here, it’s hardly anything to look up to.

He escorts Zylus through the partly empty streets. Uniformed children on their way home from school loiter on corners, kicking cans and chattering like noisy birds. They flee when they see Daltos and Zylus. Cars hum past, disturbing puddles of rainwater. Daltos is forced to backtrack after he mistakes the house number for the one across the street.

Zylus shifts where he stands on the doormat. He lifts a hand to knock, his expression poker-faced. If he dissociates again, Daltos is going to pinch him on the butt. He hesitates.

Quick as a flash, Daltos knocks  _ for _ him, drawing back. Zylus shoots him a look of pure shock. The numerous heavy locks clunk before a person answers the door.

She’s a stout woman, dressed in a pale brown work shirt, practical trousers and combat boots. Black dogtags hang off a silver chain necklace. The shade of her short hair matches Zylus’, an everyday brown. Except, hers has streaks of grey already showing. Daltos has seen her before, but where?

Her lined face stares up at the two people standing on her welcome mat, gaze flicking between the two of them, making the initial, lightning assessment of whether or not they’re salespeople, friends, strangers or– she shrieks. Her scream ricochets up and down the street like glass breaking. 

Daltos recovers from almost drawing a gun, turning his reaction into tucking his hands into his pockets. Zylus isn’t so practiced at suppressing his own reaction, flinching. 

She calms herself, her hand clutching the black dogtags around her neck, scarred knuckles whitening to the bone.

“Mom, I’m home,” Zylus mumbles. She throws her arms around him, practically sobbing. Zylus is already a mess as well.

Feeling awkward as hell for being present, Daltos moves to leave, his mission accomplished. Zylus’ hand darts out, grabbing his arm by the elbow. Daltos nearly falls on his ass; Zylus’ iron grip is shaking, and his mother doesn’t notice. Daltos hastily retraces his steps. Only then does Zylus let go of him like he’d never grabbed him.

She lets go of Zylus, patting his cheek, inspecting him from head to toe, mumbling observations to herself that sound like nonsense to onlookers, save to the two people in her presence. Someone next door pulls their curtains shut.

“You’ve grown so much, goodness, you need a haircut, you haven’t been eating enough vitamins– what happened to your  _ eye?” _ Zylus has no answer for her, looking at the welcome mat like it might enlarge and carry him away from her sharp, inquisitive, tender (and still teary) gaze. “Come in.” She beckons. Zylus and Daltos step into her home. She closes and locks the door.

The house is blessedly warm. There’s two levels to the house. She leads the two inside to a sitting room. Zylus takes a seat, as with Daltos. The chairs have high backs. Daltos ends up sitting on the edge of his, while Zylus settles right into them. Zylus has mostly stopped crying, still sniffling every few seconds.

She brings coffee, juice, water, tea and far too many biscuits, heaped on two plates. A box of tissues separates the cups. 

“I wasn’t sure what you’d like,” She says, talking to the two of them at the same time. 

The tray gets placed onto a rounded table. She sits right next to Zylus, taking one of Zylus’ hands in both her own. Her hands are tiny, compared to his.

Zylus takes one tissue, dabbing at his eyes. He tucks it into his shirt pocket. Daltos watches the two. She’s family; her hair is exactly like Zylus’, the tiniest bit curly where least expected. Zylus has the same nose, mouth and expressions. The rest of him are someone else’s.

“You must be Daltos,” She observes, clearly sensing that Zylus isn’t in any condition to speak at the moment. She presses a cup of tea into his hands. Zylus drinks.

“Yes, ma’am,” Daltos starts, with as much respect as he can force into his tone without sounding wooden, and promptly wants to shoot himself. “I apologise, I didn’t mean any offense in referring to you so formally.”

She watches him for a few seconds, her expression controlled. She’s clearly trying to work out if he means what he says, or is simply trying to offend her in the quickest way possible.

Zylus saves him, having sipped half of his tea. He mumbles, “Daltos, this is Zylina, my mother. Mom, this is Daltos. You two met before via ECHO. Remember?”

Zylina gasps. “Oh, it is him! I didn’t recognise him either. You two boys have grown so much.” Sadness fills her tone, though her expression turns coy. “I remember our first conversation.”

Daltos smirks. “So do I.” He gives Zylus a look, silently thanking him for helping. Zylus stares hard at his tea.

“Zylus, I asked you if you paid Daltos money to date you,” Zylina fondly recalls. “It was a few months after he finally confessed to you.” She tuts. “He didn’t tell me he was dating you immediately. Naughty.”

“I remember responding, ‘what makes you think he’s paying me with money?’” Zylina and Daltos share a fond laugh. Zylus only goes a mild shade of pink this time, giving the two a half-hearted glare. He puts down the empty cup of tea.

“Zylus, where have you been?” Zylina inspects his hands. She looks into his eyes.

Zylus does not look at Daltos as he starts to describe the events that led him and Daltos to live on Pandora. Daltos notices he skims over the racy parts, the argument they had during the thunderstorm, and all the assorted, awkward bits about their muddled relationship.

Two hours and several cups of tea later, Zylus is done. Zylina had listened without asking a single question. She hadn’t hidden her reactions either. Daltos only stepped in to provide clarification, and explain his side of events.

“How long are you two staying?” Zylina rises, dusting off her lap. “There’s only one guest room, but I hope you two are fine with sharing.” She’s making the assumption that they’re still together, which is half-right, but also, half-wrong.

Daltos and Zylus give each other covert glances as she starts collecting empty cups, piling them onto the tray. She leaves the leftover biscuits for them.

“If you don’t mind, I can take the couch, or go back to the frigate,” Daltos carefully offers. Zylus opens his mouth to argue; Daltos kicks him in the shin while her back is turned. Zylus winces.

Zylina whirls, cups clinking against one another. “Aren’t you two still…?”

“Yes,” Zylus says.

“No,” Daltos says, at the same time. 

The two shoot each other a look of surprise, and one of ‘didn’t we talk about this?’. Mild panic might have reared its head, briefly.

“What’s the term I saw in the paper the other day, that might be applicable to this?” Zylina wears an expression of utmost concentration. She perks up, declaring in a clear and triumphant tone, “‘Fuck buddies’, is that right?”

Zylus chokes back a horrified, embarrassed sound that could have been laughter. Daltos keeps a poker face as he leans forward. “You’ve hit the nail on the head. We’re still figuring how it’s going to work, with everything so far.”

“Daltos, mom doesn’t need to know everything–“ Zylus is keenly aware that it sounds like he’s trying to hide the issue from her, and snaps his mouth shut.

“Zylus, I’m your mother, and I’ve been a military nurse for over thirty years.” Zylina gives him a warm smile. “I’ll be here to listen, whenever you’re ready to tell me, no matter how terrible it is.” Zylus stares at her, on the verge of tears for the second time that day.

“Don’t overwhelm him, he’s just learned what ‘feelings’ means,” Daltos dryly says. Unimpressed, Zylus jabs him in the arm for that, being unable to resort to the usual punch. “We’re here for about three months. After that, who knows?”

She nods, accepting the information with startling calmness. “You still want that couch?” Zylina asks when she catches Zylus looking at him.

“I don’t want to impose,” Daltos firmly says.

“Not at all,” Zylina immediately counters. “I can get started on cleaning out the other room. There’s just junk in there, easy to move into the basement.” Daltos can see where Zylus gets his hospitality from.

“You don’t,” Daltos begins, then stops, the words lodging in his throat. He lowers his voice, trying again, as his gaze falls to her feet. “You don’t owe me anything for bringing back your son.” Dead silence follows. When he looks up, Zylus and Zylina sport identical expressions of shock. Daltos stands, dusting off his lap. A few stubborn crumbs stick to his gloves, but he doesn’t care; he fucked up. “I should go.” Remembering his manners, he adds, “Thank you for the tea and biscuits, it was a pleasure meeting you, Zylina.”

“I think you should wait and hear what my boy has to say,” Zylina gently says when he turns his back on the two of them. Daltos pauses. He can see Zylus’ reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall by the doorway.

Zylus is standing, his cheeks coloured. “Daltos, I–“ Colour keeps filling his cheeks. “I want you to stay.” Daltos doesn’t say anything. “I don’t mind sharing a room with you, and you won’t be offending my mom if you do.” He then adds in a small voice, like he’s asking too much of him, “Please.”

Why did Zylus have to  _ ask? _

It would have been easier to stay silent and let Daltos walk out the door. Daltos is still trying his hardest to keep his word to BebopVox about making Zylus happy, and all he has to do is stick around, because Zylus doesn’t look like he’s in misery’s clutches then.

Why can’t this be  _ simpler? _

Daltos can’t say ‘no’. He hasn’t been able to, ever since Zylus came to his room on the frigate because he’d gotten lonely in the middle of the night and he’d missed him.

“All you had to do was ask, Zylus.” Daltos turns. He gives him a faint smile.

The sheer happiness and relief flooding Zylus’ expression elicits a gut feeling it’s the right response. Daltos doesn’t think he’s lying to himself. Deep down, he’s glad that Zylus actually asked.

Zylina claps her hands together. The tray hangs in the air beside her, floating patiently. “Right! I’ll go and change the sheets and prep some extra pillows.” She reaches for Zylus’ arm, patting it. “Why don’t you show Daltos around the house?”

“Okay, mom,” Zylus mumbles, still staring at Daltos like he still matters to him.

The house is sparsely furnished. The thing that sticks out is the amount of books in each room; there’s at least one stack present, even in the bathroom. Zylus leads Daltos through each room.

In one room, Zylus carefully picks up a frame from a table in the hallway and hands it to Daltos. The man in the photo bears a passing resemblance to Zylus. “Dad, this is Daltos. Daltos, dad.” Daltos carefully replaces the frame, and Zylus takes him to his old bedroom.

Zylina’s kept Zylus’ old bedroom in pristine condition. She’s made an effort to keep it dust free. Zylus’ room smells of wood cuttings; books line the walls. A bed too small for the present versions of the two sits between bookshelves. A window alcove is lit by a reading lamp.

Zylus perks up as he strides over to a shelf, retrieving a rabbit toy with long, floppy ears. “Mister Floppers!”

Daltos snorts before he can help himself. Zylus is examining the toy, clearly delighted by his discovery. He brings the soft toy over. The toy’s button eyes stare him down. “Daltos, this is Mister Floppers. Mister Floppers, this is Daltos.”

With as much seriousness as he possibly can, Daltos reaches out to shake the toy’s arm (clearly beloved, judging by the numerous chew marks on it). “Nice to meet you, Mister Floppers.” A pleased smile forms on Zylus’ face.

Zylus sits down on the bed. “Um.” He fiddles with Mister Flopper’s ears. “Thank you, for staying.”

Daltos sits down beside him. He leans in, whispering suggestively, “That being said, I’ll try not to initiate any hanky panky under your mom’s roof.”

“Daltos!” Scandalised, Zylus hisses, covering the toy’s ears. “Not in front of Mister Floppers!”

Laughing, Daltos moves to examine all the childhood photos of Zylus hanging on the wall. Zylus remains on the bed, cuddling his toy in his arms. He leaves Zylus with his thoughts to go ECHO Arsenal, sneaking around the back of the house to do so.

He runs into Zylina in the hallway, who’s lugging boxes of old magazines to the recycling bins. Daltos takes the lot despite her insistence that she can carry it all on her own. He dumps the boxes into the recycling bin. She talks him into accepting dinner in exchange for helping her.

Daltos settles on her back porch. Right. So. He’s staying with Zylus’ mother. No matter how he words it, Arsenal is bound to warp it. He dials Arsenal. Arsenal doesn’t pick up, but one of his kraggons does, muffled scuffling filling Daltos’ HUD. Said kraggon is probably carrying the ECHO device to him.

“Good boy! Here, go and munch on this nice leg bone one of the technicians found, and don’t forget to share it with your brother!” Arsenal’s voice becomes crystal clear. “Yo, Daltos! What’s up?” It’s quiet where he is.

“I thought I’d check in with you,” Daltos says. His fingers itch for a smoke to play with; unfortunately, he didn’t think to bring any with him. All he has is a stash of chocolate coins that somehow managed to sneak into his inventory. He flips one out, idly walking it up and down his knuckles and the back of his fingers.

“Man, stop worrying, everything’s pretty smooth at the moment.” Arsenal whispers, “Guess what, you’ll never guess what colour I picked for the hallways.”

“Is it hot pink?” Daltos patiently asks, partially dreading the answer he’ll get.

“Am I that predictable?” Arsenal chuckles, low and evil. “Naw, I thought about doing mauve, but people would just fucking call it ‘dark purple’, which is  _ wrong, _ so I went for a nice, relaxing shade of navy instead.”

_ “Navy?” _ Well, that’s not the worst colour Arsenal could have picked.

“Yeah! The same colour as your jacket!” He sounds so fucking smug.

Daltos catches the coin when it flies from his hand, almost crushing it in half. “How the fuck is navy  _ relaxing?” _

“Think of it this way, nobody’ll ever see you sneaking up on them!” Arsenal  _ cackles. _

“This is why I don’t let you pick what colour the technicals should be!” Daltos has half a mind to catch a shuttle taxi and fly back to the frigate so he can smack Arsenal. He can’t, since Zylina’s already invited him to dinner.

“Bullshit, you love navy!” Arsenal claims with his special brand of typical, obnoxious cheerfulness.

“Not when it’s the fucking same colour as everything else in the frigate!”

“Sorry, paint job’s locked in!” Arsenal is snickering. Suspecting it’s a joke, Daltos slumps against the chair. The chocolate coin clatters onto the wood, flatly rolling to a stop. “So, what’s happening on your end?”

“I’m glad you asked.” Daltos gathers breath. “I met Zylus’ mother, she cried, Zylus cried, I tried to leave when it got awkward, but couldn’t since Zylus asked me to stay, and I’m apparently staying with her and Zylus while we’re on this planet. Oh, and I’m almost about to have dinner.”

“Wow.” Arsenal taps something against a surface, likely a pen. “Need me to bail you out because you’re too scared of making the wrong impression?”

“It’s just dinner.” Daltos rolls his eyes, even if Arsenal can’t see it. “I’m not that socially inept.”

“Ooh, can I come to dinner instead?”

“You’re not leaving the frigate unless it’s an emergency, and if I catch you near Zylus’ childhood home, I’m telling Minty.”

“You can’t play the ‘telling Minty’ card! She’d want to tag along to dinner too!” Arsenal stops yelling, taking a deep breath. “K, but you gotta get me something greasy before you drop by here. I hunger for a good old fashioned burger stuffing.”

“I’ll see what I can do. I’ll call you later.” Daltos drops the call before Arsenal can get the last word in. He stands up after collecting his coin, stepping back into the house. 

Zylus and Zylina are making a fair racket in the kitchen. Zylus has taken off his jacket, wandering around in a t-shirt and jeans. He looks up from the cutting board when Daltos walks in; Zylus’ face immediately cheers. Daltos stickybeaks on what he’s cutting up. It’s minced meat.

Zylus uses a sideways glance to check that his mother’s back is turned. He darts a small, chaste kiss to Daltos’ mouth. Daltos blinks, and Zylus is back to concentrating on mutilating meat.

“Can I help?” Daltos offers, out of boredom.

“No!” Zylina and Zylus chorus at him. The two laugh, Daltos blinking.

“You’re a guest, so put your feet up in the sitting room and relax,” Zylina insists. She rushes at him, shooing him into the hall with all the formidity of a hospitable mother. “Zylus, on the other hand, is showing me a recipe he picked up from somewhere, so he’s stuck in here.” Zylus grins at him.

“No, really, there’s gotta be something I can do–“ Daltos is silenced by her pushing plates and eating utensils into his hands.

“Then be a dear and set the table,” Zylina sweetly says. The glint in her eyes tells him that he’s not allowed to do anything else.

Daltos sets the table. It takes, surprise, about five minutes. He resorts to checking his messages. Arsenal’s sent him a snapshot of the newly repainted hallways (phew, a neutral green). It’s immediately followed by five pointless kraggon updates. He ignores those. Ravs left a potentially saucy picture; Daltos saves that for later to preserve what’s left of Zylus’ sensibilities lest he look over at the wrong moment.

His former lieutenants are having an outrageous time skiing with the Vault Hunters. Hawker’s already run into three different trees, but they’re being fawned over by a bunch of very attractive young men who rescued them from falling off the side of the mountain.

> im srsly questioning my sexuality rn and if i didnt think i was gay before im def gay now anyways im gonna drink my painkillers and hide this one guys number before hurricane murders him or sth bc he thinks this guy is being skeevy and just wants to cut off my dick once were alone but jokes on hurricane were gonna go skiiing tomorrow before he wakes up and BOY im gonna impress this hunk with all my skiing tricks but bc youre my daddy i just wanted to get your permission first if things go any further so PLS LEMME SEE THIS GUY DADDY HES REALLY CUTE

Daltos considers sending Hurricane a copy of the message to fuck with Hawker. He eventually sends back:

> Hawker, go the fuck to sleep, I don’t give a shit about your love life but good luck anyway, definitely go ask Siebel for tips about how to impress guys without try harding since I don’t know shit about impressing anybody.’

Hawker responds in less than a minute.

> thats a yes?

Daltos sends back an emote shrug that doubles as ‘whatever’, something he picked up from Teep’s goggles. Hawker dumps a million smiley faces and lovehearts in their reply, causing his HUD to go haywire. Daltos temporarily blocks Hawker.

“Dinner’s ready,” Zylus calls from the kitchen. Daltos puts away his ECHO device to go help.

\--

Spending three months at his mother’s place is different to living on the frigate. Zylus rolls over in bed, blinking sleep away. The walls aren’t metal, but plaster– he sits up, alarmed that this isn’t Daltos’ room– right, this is the guest room in his mother’s house. He drops his head back onto the pillow, embarrassed and wide awake. He adjusts Mister Floppers so that the toy isn’t in any danger of falling.

Daltos stirs against his arm, making a disgruntled sound at all the jostling. He rolls onto his back, yawning. He yanks half the sheets back from Zylus, curling back up. Zylus lets him do so, perfectly aware that his sheet stealing problem is one that he can’t consciously control.

He slips out of bed. Just before he does, he tucks Mister Floppers against Daltos’ bare chest. Daltos stays oblivious. He usually wakes up after Zylus does, in his own time. It’s early in the morning, just a little past dawn. Hecatoncheires has a cycle that’s shorter than that of Pandora’s, but a little longer than the galactic standard. It didn’t take long to adjust to it.

Zylus heads to the bathroom. He’s used to seeing himself without the monocle now, barely sparing a second glance at his reflection. His mother’s thoughtfully set out extra dental paste, toothbrushes and towels.

He finds his mother in the kitchen, a breakfast platter already made. He makes two cups of coffee, though leaves one prepped.

“Morning, Zylus,” Zylina bids. One of the black dogtags is no longer hanging on the silver chain around her neck.

“Morning, mom,” Zylus says. He pauses to admire the magnificent spread of food covering half of the kitchen table. “You’ve gone all out.” 

“I wasn’t sure what you two prefer, and I didn’t want to wake you both when popping in to check on you earlier.” His mother’s attempting the daily crossword, her pen hatching out possible letters. Every now and again, she picks up her fork and munches pieces of her egg and ham toastie.

“Thank you, but you  _ have _ to let me do all the dishes.” Zylus helps himself to a toastie as well.

“Deal.” Zylina gives him an amused look over the top of her newspaper. “You don’t have to pick the same thing to eat as me.”

“I want to,” Zylus quickly says. “I haven’t had–“ He cuts himself off before he can finish the sentence, his face heating. He hasn’t had breakfast with his own mother in a decade.

Her expression softens. The pages crinkles as she rises from her chair. Zylus finds himself being wrapped in a hug. She absently pats his hair, her fingers admiring the long, mussed curls so like her own.

The two hear a sharp intake of breath from the door. Zylus spies a familiar shape slipping back down the hall. “Daltos?”

“Don’t let me interrupt your quality family bonding time!” Daltos shouts. A door closes, in the distance.

Zylus squeezes his mother’s arms before letting her go. She kisses him on the forehead, standing on her tippy toes; Zylus would normally feel embarrassed, but he’s missed her so, so much. They part, and Zylus waits for Daltos to join them.

“Morning.” Daltos returns to the kitchen in twenty minutes; he brought Mister Floppers with him, setting the toy on the table against a conveniently placed stack of cookbooks.

“Morning,” Zylina cordially says to him.

“Morning–“ Zylus nearly chokes on his coffee. Daltos isn’t wearing a shirt. He squints at the coffee maker before finding the cup Zylus left for him, inserting it and fiddling with the machine. It starts to hum.

Zylina’s raised an eyebrow, staying silent. Zylus springs from his chair under the pretense of getting more coffee. 

“What?” Daltos notices him.

He quietly hisses at Daltos, “Please wear a shirt in front of my mother!”

Daltos looks down, unconcerned. He spawns a shirt– which isn’t his. It’s Zylus’, from yesterday. He tugs it on, taking away his freshly brewed coffee.

Zylus realises that he’s wearing Daltos’ shirt, which he must have grabbed by accident. They’d both gone shirtless from the hideous humidity last night. Zylus is going to die of mortification, because there’s no way that his mother didn’t notice their shirts being switched.

She has the tact not to mention it out loud, though. It’d explain why she’s giving Zylus a little approving nod when he reacted. Zylus slinks back to his chair and food, making his mind up not to make omelettes out of eggshells.

Meanwhile, Daltos sets a plate in front of Mister Floppers, diligently cutting up a toastie into tiny portions for the toy. Zylina covers her mouth, hemming; it sounds too much like a hastily disguised laugh to Zylus.

Leaving his coffee by his plate, Daltos concentrates on eating his scrambled eggs, sausages, bacon and tomatoes. He still looks far too sleepy, and the encroaching grey in his hair is more evident than ever, in the natural, soft light that the kitchen windows allows. Something in Zylus’ chest wrenches inward, hard.

“Did you two sleep well?” Zylina inquires.

Definitely not staring, Zylus finishes chewing and swallows. “We– I mean, I slept well. I don’t know about you, Daltos.”

“Best sleep I’ve ever had, not counting all the ones post se–“ Daltos starts. Zylus deliberately bumps the table, making almost everything jump and drown out the last word Daltos says. It’s not even midday yet.

“Sorry!” Zylus apologises. Zylina raises her other eyebrow as Daltos gives him a sore look.

Daltos turns to Mister Floppers. “You finishing that? You couldn’t possibly have another bite? Okay.” He takes the plate that Mister Floppers had, eating the cut up toastie.

Zylina sips from her coffee for far too long. Zylus would like to know what Daltos is playing at. Before he can ask, Daltos finishes eating. He washes the plates, then excuses himself.

Zylus stares at the space he’d filled by the sink.

“I’ll be in the garden, if you need me.” Zylina kisses him on the cheek, stepping out of the kitchen. “I’m not losing to the weeds today.”

“Okay, looks like it’s just you and me, Mister Floppers,” Zylus mutters under his breath.

It becomes routine, Zylus waking up before Daltos. If he rises before his mother, he cooks breakfast. If not, his mother is happy to do so, simply glad that he’s home again. Daltos usually doesn’t get up that early, but he occasionally takes over dinner to make up for it. Zylus has a hunch that Daltos wants to pitch in, in his own way.

Daltos once arrives with Arsenal in tow, helping him up the steps. With permission, Arsenal lets loose his two kraggons in Zylina’s backyard, lacking his usual babysitters. Zylina is delighted by the two kraggons, pronouncing them as ‘little darlings’. Arsenal immediately declares that he adores Zylus’ mother.

Zylus tries not to wonder why none of the other Vault Hunters have dropped by yet. He pushes that thought to the back of his mind and tries to pay attention to Arsenal attempting to convince Daltos to install coffee machines on every floor. Daltos refuses to, since that spells out instant trouble.

After that, Arsenal is a frequent dinner companion, when he’s not tied up in frigate business. The only matters Zylus has any say in is decor, or the state of the engines. He’s glad he can do that much to help, at least. It’s more Daltos and Arsenal’s ship than his, though Arsenal insists Zylus should have a say as to what the new kitchen installations are.

At some point, his mother convinces him to try dating again. Daltos shows no signs of minding; the closer the deadline draws, the less time he spends at Zylina’s house. Zylus wakes up to mornings where the other side of the bed hasn’t been slept in.

Zylus leaves the house, as well dressed as he can possibly be without looking like he’s off to a function of some sort. The date is lukewarm; Zylus goes home an hour in. They hadn’t seemed impressed with him for how preoccupied he’d been, the conversations stuttering and awkward, as it’d been with the other four dates.

He hadn’t eaten much, but he’d paid for the dinner, out of politeness. The walk home lets him clear his head. Zylus lets himself in, taking off his jacket, tie already loosened in his hand. He remembers that there’s leftovers in the fridge.

Daltos is in the kitchen, tasting from a spoon. He makes a face, leaning over to add a pinch of salt and stirring a pot full of soup. Zylus hasn’t seen him in three days. Three days isn’t a significant amount of time, but it feels like it, to Zylus.

They stare at each other. Zylus mumbles, “Hi.”

“How was your date?” Daltos returns to making sure his soup doesn’t deteriorate on him.

“It was fine.” Zylus throws his tie into his inventory.

“You want some soup? It’s a Minty creation.”

“Okay, but I didn’t know you traded recipes with her.”

“Back when we used to be bandits, we used to take turns cooking. We’d end up at Minty’s place a lot, ‘cause hers was the quietest. Eating with her’s like playing gun roulette, except with food.”

“How is Minty’s cooking, actually?” Zylus has never accepted a dinner invitation from her; as a sheriff, she’s formidable, so it’s not far for him to assume that her cooking is just as intense. Hollie reassures him that Minty’s talent in the kitchen hasn’t landed her or anyone in the medical bay (yet).

“You’ve never tried her pasta? Her pasta could fucking win prizes. Or kill. It depends on what she feels like putting in.” Daltos places a full bowl of soup in front of Zylus. “I could ask her once she’s back. It’s been bloody ages since we had a group fondue night.”

“I– what?” Zylus gets a spoon and sits back down. “Also, where’s my mom?”

“It’s like hotpot, except we all got to contribute something,” Daltos explains. “Your mom’s gone off to her book club. She was so excited for this week’s thriller that she left twenty minutes early.”

A little relieved that Daltos didn’t murder his mother, Zylus starts to eat the soup. He checks for any strange lumps, just in case, using his spoon to investigate. “I don’t think it’d be a good idea to have too many people attend.”

“Why not? I think it’ll be great!” Daltos sounds too interested in the idea. “Should warn Lalnable though, so he can get all his anti-vomiting meds ready.”

Zylus almost spits out his mouthful of soup, too busy laughing. “No, bad!”

“Too late, I already proposed it in the group chat.” Daltos pauses. “Looks like people love it.”

“We have a group chat?”

“Did I add you?”

“I don’t know?”

“I did! You just never bother to check your HUD.”

“I do! Maybe I’ve got the tab hidden, or something– oh yeah, I hid it after Teep dropped in a half naked photo of me showing off my guns to Ravs.”

“Who’s the moron who deleted it before I could save it?”

“Xephos. Please don’t ask Teep for it–“ Zylus starts, just as Daltos spawns his ECHO device, flipping the screen around. His background is now set to a photo that Zylus is unfortunately, too familiar with. He makes a grab for the device; Daltos despawns it, grinning. Zylus deadeyes him. “Alright, but you now owe me a half-naked photo of yourself,” He jokes.

“Let me ask Ravs.”

“Why are you asking  _ Ravs?” _

“Look, if anybody is going to have any half naked photos of me, it’ll be Ravs. Or Arsenal. Or Minty. One of those three ought to have some good ones.” Zylus wonders what his life’s come to. Daltos shares an album of choice photos. Zylus discretely tucks it out of sight. “I knew you wouldn’t say ‘no’ to that treat,” Daltos observes, with a smug look. “Maybe I’ll print a calendar and give it to you for your next birthday.”

Zylus gives up on stopping him, focusing on finishing his food. “You could do a calendar with Ravs to raise funds for charity– you are definitely not allowed to post that in the group chat!”

“I didn’t, but Arsenal did,” Daltos says. “Ravs likes the idea!”

Zylus sighs. He can’t believe he doesn’t want anybody else like this in his life.

\--

Something makes a satisfying crick in Daltos’ back when he rolls his right shoulder forwards. As usual, Zylus is in the shower; he can hear the bathroom being flooded four different ways, thanks to the ajar door. 

Nothing would stop him from sleeping in, and Zylus and his mother aren’t that heartless to stop him if he wanted to. Should he? It’s tempting, to catch another three hours of sleep without any threat of being ambushed.

He craves an early morning smoke, missing sneaking onto the Buzzard launch bay on  _ The Blackrock _ back when it was grounded. What he doesn’t quite miss are the resulting lectures from a bandit lieutenant who just ‘happened’ to be camping on the platform. The old compulsion to light one up passes, as it usually does.

He pushes up from the bed, the furry feeling in his mouth fading as well. Still bleary from sleep, Daltos turns his head, reaching for a glass of water (his now, no apologies to Zylus), only to come face to face with a floating eyeball.

Wincing, Daltos picks himself up off the floor from having done a combat roll right off the bed. A blank pupil stares at him, pale pink stringy bits spreading like hair behind it. It’s contained in a small, sealed glass jar. The disembodied eye leisurely bobs within its enclosure, its line of sight easing off to the floor instead.

Irritated, Daltos throws a hand towel over it so it can’t see him changing. He’d know that stupid eye anywhere, already hating that his morning is ruined by it. Because of that, he misses Zylus leaving for the frigate and the chance to say ‘morning’ to him.

Six hours later, Zylus is back from another round of frigate inspections. He watches Daltos chewing, missing the empty jar on the table. 

“Man, that was tougher than six month old skag jerky.” Daltos’ comment flies over Zylus’ head, until he recalls seeing a similar jar on his nightstand. He’d been cleaning his inventory, and must have forgotten–  _ no. _

Zylus snatches the jar up. “Daltos! Where’s my eye?”

“What eye?”

“The one that was in the jar!”

“Why, was it important?”

“It was my old eye!” Zylus is about to shake him for proper answers. He shoves Daltos away, backing off in horror. “You ate it. You  _ ate _ my eye!”

“Sometimes a guy gets hungry and then he has a bad thought, and the bad thought tells him to eat someone’s eyeball.” Daltos pauses. “I should work on my impulse control next.”

“How  _ could _ you?” Zylus puts down the jar, clearly distraught. “Why would you  _ even?” _

“Because it’s funny.” Daltos spawns the real jar, plonking it onto the kitchen bench. “And because it scared the shit out of me when I woke up to find it staring at me.”

Zylus’ hand blurs when he grabs the jar, looking betrayed. He retreats to his room; Daltos hears the door closing. He gives Zylus five minutes before knocking and entering. Zylus is curled up in the bed. He’s cuddling the jar to his chest. 

“Why are you still hanging onto that thing?” Daltos asks.

“It’s  _ mine.” _ Zylus sinks under the sheets until only the top of his head is showing.

“Lil weird of you to hang onto something like that.”

“But it’s  _ my _ eye,” Zylus says, his sullen voice muffled. 

Daltos sighs, then pats the lump that is Zylus and leaves him be. He should give Zylus the preserved eye that Arado tried to cut out of him.

\--

Nanosounds appears on Zylina’s doorstep. She stands, wishing that she’d picked a better tie. This one is one that Will gifted her, a limited edition white and black patterned number from his own collection. Fortunately, she’s not here to fight. She’s here to persuade. Really, they should have sent Will here for this, this is his department. It’d be easier if Zylus and Daltos were scared of her Siren powers, but they aren’t, so she has to do this the old-fashioned way.

Zylus answers the door, easing it open with basic cautiousness. He perks up upon seeing her, a smile immediately gracing his face. “Nanosounds!”

“Zylus!” It’s not hard to return his smile. “Hi, I thought I’d drop by and see how you’re doing!”

“Come on in, it’s about to rain anyway.” Zylus hustles her inside. Nanosounds nearly looks back around at the sound of heavy locks falling back into place.

She’s led into a kitchen, where she’s given fresh coffee and a selection of mouth-watering butter cookies. She finds herself eating through three before Zylus sits down across from her with two cups of coffee. “Where’s Daltos?”

Zylus places the other cup next to him. “He took the kraggons for a walk. He’ll be back soon. How was your holiday?” He’s genuinely interested; the others had fretted over Zylus being left out, but he’d returned their messages that he’ll be fine, it’s three in the morning on his side and he’d like to rest.

Nanosounds endeavours to show off the portfolio of photos that have amassed from the holiday trip. Embarrassingly, her mother had made copies, each professionally printed in a sleek, black volume. It’d easily cost Will three paychecks (according to his own estimates).

Picking up the offered volume, Zylus leafs through it. She provides idle commentary. It’s a portfolio and a scrapbook, in one. She watches Zylus’ expressions for any hint of envy or disappointment on missing such an experience.

He laughs, at Junior becoming a floating bundle of cloth over Rythian worrying that Junior’s too cold. There’s Ravs, still dressed in a kilt and a leather jacket despite it being cold enough to get frostbite. Trottimus, Ross and Alsmiffy had constructed a phallic shaped object from snow, with Trottimus perched atop it. It’d been destroyed by Larry Robert soon after, thanks to Lalna.

The front door opens and closes. Excited scuffling noises echo down the hallway. Two kraggons slide past on the doormat. Daltos jogs past; there’s another snap of the door and muffled murmuring. Daltos appears at the doorway, two leashes hanging from a hand. He shakes off his jacket, hanging it onto a wall hook.

He spots Nanosounds. She waves at him. He doesn’t react, beyond giving a polite nod. Zylus pushes coffee at him, which he takes once he sits down. Nanosounds takes back the portfolio, slipping it back into her inventory.

“What brings you here?” Daltos inquires. He doesn’t add anything to the coffee that Zylus made, giving her an impassive look.

Nanosounds sucks in a breath, preparing herself. BebopVox had assured her that the two are open to the idea, but the two accepting the offer’s something else. “The frigate’s nearly repaired, yes?” Nanosounds ventures.

Daltos consults a hologram that he spawns on the kitchen table. He folds it shut after a few seconds. “We have about three weeks left, according to the schedule Arsenal made. It’s just hull touch-ups and internal, cosmetic repairs at this point, unless something else happens. Why ask?”

“So, I’ve managed to form an official organisation about finding the Vaults,” Nanosounds starts. Zylus and Daltos stare at her. “Before you ask, Rythian said ‘yes’, and he’s actually all for it. It was his idea, actually.”

“You’re turning Vault Hunting into a legit thing?” Daltos frowns, lightly. “I hope you’ve thought this through.”

“If anybody wants to join us, they can. We just have to look at their applications and credentials.” Nanosounds tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “We’re not making anybody join us if they don’t want to. With all the Vaults that Rythian’s studying, there’s gotta be other people out there wanting to do what Sjin did.” Namedropping Sjin doesn’t elicit any reaction from the two. Zylus merely glances from her to him. “All we want to do is stop people from opening the wrong Vaults.”

“What’s your offer?”

“I want you to fly the frigate, as an official pilot.” Nanosounds extracts a bound sheaf of papers, leaving it on the table. “This is the contract, but it’s just a formal way of saying that you’re a part of our organisation plus some extra benefits, like health insurance, the right to keep approved loot, standard stuff.”

Daltos picks up the contract, flicking through the pages. Zylus leans towards him to read over his shoulder. He draws back a few minutes later. 

“I’m not going.”

Nanosounds nods and smiles at him. That’s surprising; she’d expected Zylus to join up straightaway. “Can I ask you why?”

“I want to live quietly,” Zylus says, softly. Next to him, Daltos reaches the last page. “I’ve spent so long trying to survive on Pandora that I’m still trying to cope with leaving that life behind.”

Nanosounds can’t say that she understands, because she doesn’t, but if that’s what Zylus wants, then she’ll respect that. She nods. “And you, Daltos?”

“Can I think about it?” Daltos returns the contact to her. She waves her hand at him.

“Of course.” Nanosounds smiles. “You’ve got my details, and you can hold onto the contract until you make a decision.”

“Is Arsenal going?”

Nanosounds inclines her head, noting with some small amount of satisfaction that she finally gained Daltos’ attention. “He signed up immediately.”

Zylus starts. “I have to go and pick up my mother!” He dashes from the room. A few minutes later, he bolts past the doorway. The front door bangs, followed by a muffled apology.

Daltos is still paying attention to her. “What else do I get if I join up with you?” It’s not unexpected that he’s shrewd when negotiating. 

“Money, and lots of it,” Nanosounds promptly says. “Enough that you won’t have to worry about anything for a few months.” He doesn’t look swayed. His chin rests atop the back of his hand, which is propped up on the table. It’s a calculated, bored gesture, meant to intimidate her. Nanosounds refuses to let herself be thwarted, her resolve growing. “A new bike.”

Daltos lets out a soft, amused, “Ha.”

“What? You had one, but it vanished,” She says, not that worried that her second offer’s been shot down as fast as the first.

“Wasn’t mine, it was technically Arsenal’s, and I lent it to Ravs. He’s still hanging onto it.” Daltos shakes his head. “That washed up piece of shit was Arsenal’s latest junkyard find,  _ which _ he only gave it to me since he can’t drive it yet.”

“You drive a tough bargain,” Nanosounds says, mimicking Ravs’ haggling tone. It’s a special sultry voice he uses; nobody else on the frigate managed to make ‘bargain’ sound so promising.

“Anything else you got?” Daltos examines his nails, almost like he’s waiting.

It hits Nanosounds like a bolt out of the blue. “Okay, since I can’t offer you anything that’ll satisfy you–“ Daltos is smirking. She recovers, pretending that she hadn’t let it unnerve her, flushing slightly. Besides, she doesn’t swing for people who’re taken, no matter how attractive they are.

His eyes deliberately drift to her left arm, the one bearing dull, seared Siren marks. “I’m not into tentacles,” Daltos carefully says, his smirk not budging.

Nanosounds closes her mouth, counting very fast to ‘ten’ so that she doesn’t rise to his teasing (if that’s what it is, because if this is what Zylus puts up with on a regular basis, then she applauds him for his endless patience). “I am  _ not _ offering you tentacles!”

“Even if it’s an all-expenses paid trip to Eros-6, I still wouldn’t take it!” 

Nanosounds knows of at least five people who’d be on their hands and knees, begging her to let them go on said trip. She mutters, “Maybe I should offer that–“ She snaps out of it. “Stop sidetracking me!”

“You’re sidetracking yourself,” Daltos says.

“Fine, what do you want?” Nanosounds snaps. Will would have shaken his head for her slip in temper. Daltos isn’t scared of her, staying put. There’s no fear, as part of his body language or in his expression.

Daltos makes his request in a level voice. “Make sure that Zylus and his mother are set for life.”

“That’s it?”

“Even if I quit, you’ll look after the two.” Daltos drops the smirk, waiting for her answer.

That would explain why he’d waited until Zylus left. Zylus wouldn’t want any charity from Daltos, even through a third party like Nanosounds, who’s a friend of a friend. If it’s a part of Daltos’ terms and conditions for helping the Vault Hunters, then Zylus has no choice but to accept it.

“Anything else?” Nanosounds is relieved that it’s not a complicated request. That’s within her powers.

Daltos thinks for a moment. “And one favour, which I can use, anytime, anywhere, for anything.”

“It’ll depend on what you request, but we can work that out when the time arrives.” Nanosounds records the conversation as part of her notes.

“See you in three weeks.” Daltos shows her to the door.

\--

Zylus doesn’t walk in on him packing, or anything like that. Daltos seeks him out, as he’s bending down over his mother’s herb garden, waging a tug of war with weeds determined to take root amongst the aromatic herbs. The closer the frigate’s departure, the longer the stretches of time Daltos spends away. It’s been almost a week since he last saw him.

Gardening is his latest distraction. He looks up from the annoying tangle of herb and weed by his right boot. Daltos is dressed in a new black jacket, the symbol of the Vaults sewn onto a chest pocket. 

Zylus doesn’t need an explanation to understand. He rises, tugging off the gardening gloves. Clods of dried mud and loose dirt cascade onto the path. “You’re going.” 

Daltos looks uncomfortable as he nods.

The back door thumps as the two walk back into the house. His mother barely looks up from her book as Zylus leads Daltos into the bedroom, in silence. Once the door closes, Zylus eases himself onto the bed. Daltos takes the desk chair, rolling it over until his knees are almost touching Zylus’.

“The truth is, I’m bored.” Daltos’ voice is controlled, like he’s reciting something off invisible cards. “I’ve been bored for three months.” He laughs, the laugh devoid of any amusement. “I can’t do  _ domestic.” _ He pauses, a rare note of admiration slipping into his voice. “Not like you can.”

Zylus wants to tell him that he isn’t good doing domestic either; domestic doesn’t quite describe having to hide how much he looks forward to Daltos returning every single time he leaves the house, or the growing collection of little, distinct habits that Zylus has to stop himself from reenacting, with his absence. He made too much food in the week that he was away, which made his mother worry that he’s overeating. At least Zylus doesn’t have to worry about leftovers for a bit, as a result.

It’s important to let Daltos finish, because it’s clear that he’s reached the point that he can’t hide it from Zylus anymore, because if Zylus asked him to stay, he would, and staying would probably suffocate him, making him miserable, and that’s the opposite of what Zylus wants for him.

_ (“What I want doesn’t matter.”) _

“You never needed my permission to go.” Zylus musters up a faint smile. “I’ll be fine.” He wishes he could believe his own words.

Daltos takes his answer, mulling over it. Zylus can almost see the gears turning in his mind, trying to understand if Zylus is really letting him go. Maybe he expected an argument; fighting would have made it easier to leave.

“Alright,” Daltos says after a minute of thought. They both leave it at that, and talk nothing more of his decision.

The night before Daltos leaves, Zylus goes to fetch his mother for dinner from her room. He finds a note on her bed. How she left the house without tipping off the both of them is incredible; maybe they were both too wrapped up in preparations to notice.

“Dear, my friend’s wife’s sister’s cousin’s just given birth to triplets, and the baby shower’s tonight! I forgot to mark it on the fridge calendar, silly me. I’ll be staying over to help clean up in the morning. You boys enjoy yourselves, and give Daltos my love too.”

It’s so transparent, Zylina’s heartfelt attempt to let him have one night of ‘alone time’ with Daltos. He writes himself a note on the fridge to do something nice for her, as thanks. She wanted the remaining weeds in the garden done next. He bumps it up his mental to-do list.

Upstairs, he can hear Daltos thumping about, trying to track down the last of his missing clothes. Zylus rushes off to fetch the remaining laundry baskets, recalling that Daltos’ blue jacket is probably in it. 

He fishes out said jacket from the dryer, separating it from the other clothing. It’s still warm, faintly smelling of rosy detergent that he’s grown to love, and not just because it’s his mother’s. He’ll take this over any day compared to rationing rainwater for the washing machine, and, whenever he could afford it, reusable capsules of odourless Tediore soap.

When Zylus holds the jacket up to check it, he’s struck by the impulse to hide it, to hang onto a part of him so that he’ll have something to remember him by once he’s left. It’s childish, and he (a little too viciously) reminds himself that he’s a grown man who doesn’t need precious keepsakes when memories won’t be enough.

Zylus treads the stairs, holding the jacket in one hand. He finds Daltos crouched by the bed, critically examining two identical shirts laid out on the carpet. 

“Hey, which one of these is yours again?” He looks up, visibly cheering when he spots Zylus. “You found it!” Forgetting the shirts, he gets to his feet, grunting at the pins and needles assaulting his knees.

Hit in the heart by a bolt of fondness, Zylus can’t let go of the jacket fast enough, his fingertips brushing a sleeve as Daltos takes it. Daltos pauses in the middle of bundling it up when his gaze catches Zylus watching him. Zylus can’t glance away fast enough to disguise his lingering regret at handing the jacket back to its owner.

Daltos looks down at his jacket. He offers the jacket to Zylus, holding it in one hand. It hangs loosely by a sleeve. “Take it.”

“No! I possibly can’t, it’s yours–“ Zylus backs away to the doorway like the jacket is a pinless grenade.

“I have other jackets.” Daltos moves with him, now holding the jacket in both hands. “I’m not going to miss it–“

“You will! You don’t wear the other ones as much.” Zylus mumbles the last part, embarrassed to have noticed that much about him. “I do laundry a lot, alright?” Daltos doesn’t say anything, not helping the astonished silence one bit with his stare.

“Zylus, it’s not a big deal, if you really need it to help you–“ He murmurs.

Zylus shakes his head. “Look, can we forget this happened? I don’t want your jacket, it’s tacky and falling apart anyway, and I’m out of blue thread to keep fixing it.” 

Any excuse to airbrush the truth from the room has his inner self squirming at the stacking lies. He knows Daltos has thick enough skin to not let the insults hurt or take it as a personal challenge to hit back just as hard. 

Daltos puts away his jacket without another word. Zylus leaves him to continue packing.

Even if it’s his last night and he should be getting as much rest as he can, Daltos makes dinner. There’s no conversation, and Zylus can’t bring himself to think of a topic that won’t eventually turn to the inevitable. Daltos makes up for the prolonged silence an hour later; when they both arrived at this house, he said he wouldn’t start anything, but it doesn’t count if it’s Zylus who started it. That’s what Zylus tells himself, at any rate.

“I’ll call,” Daltos says, once they’ve both settled down for the night. It’s not a concrete promise of any kind, but Zylus appreciates that he’s honestly  _ trying _ . It’s endearing.

Sighing, he tries not to touch the obvious marks on the inside of his legs, his shoulders or his neck, wanting them to linger as long as possible. On Daltos, he definitely left some of his own. He rests his head on Daltos’ bare chest, letting his calming heartbeat lull him to sleep.

He couldn’t have asked for anything more perfect.

Zylus wakes to find the storage unit that Daltos prepared missing from the foot of the bed. He curls up, the bed now starkly empty. He’d stowed Mister Floppers in the toy chest, not wanting to sully his memories of the toy with the ones he’d made last night. 

At least he has more space to stretch out now? He inches himself into the middle, helping himself to another pillow like it’ll ease how much emptier the bed feels. He touches fabric that doesn’t match the sheets or the pillows. Sitting up, Zylus tugs it to him, gathering it in his arms.

He buries his face into the crumpled folds of Daltos’ blue jacket. It doesn’t smell like him since it got washed, but Zylus doesn’t mind. When he wraps himself in it, he can pretend that he’s still here.

\--

A month passes, filled with radio silence. At first, Zylus tries to reason with himself. Following that, he gets pissed; he destroys all and any weeds poking up in the herb garden. Zylina takes him off gardening, pronouncing the backyard ‘weed free after a decade, and all it took was you’. Lacking anything else to do, Zylus resorts to cleaning the house from top to bottom. She leaves him be, and he’s grateful (for the millionth time).

He’s in the middle of throwing out cartons of printed obituaries (no longer needed by Zylina) when a figure arrives, leaning on the front gate. Zylus’ eyes are watering from all the loose dust, so he doesn't quite recognise who it is at first.

BebopVox grins at him. “Zylus! Hi!” Their voice is loud, startling him. They’re dressed in an eclectic mix of high fashion and casual clothing. In a plain neighborhood like this, they stick out like a severed thumb. Children on the street corner whisper and point to one another, giggling.

“Ridge?” Zylus will never get used to BebopVox using Ridgedog’s name as their own. “Ridge! What’re you doing here?”

“I came here to visit you!” BebopVox winks at him, attempting a roguish one. It partially succeeds, Zylus blushing a little bit. This pleases BebopVox immensely.

“Zylus, is that a friend?” Zylina’s voice drifts from inside the house.

“Is that your mother?” BebopVox is already past the gate, striding into the house. Zylus closes the gate, hurrying to catch up with BebopVox. BebopVox is gushing praise in front of Zylina, who looks too horribly amused than frightened. “–Ridgedog, and it’s an absolute pleasure to meet the person who brought Zylus into this world!”

“Zylina,” She graciously introduces herself. “Now, what’s my son’s friend doing here?”

“I came here to ask Zylus out on a date!” is BebopVox’s simple, and incredibly blunt answer.

“What?” Zylus’ eyes widen. He’d never thought BebopVox had any– he’d always assumed that BebopVox didn’t have any interest in humans whatsoever, beyond keeping certain ones alive. He corrects himself. BebopVox is allowed to develop interest in people. He doesn’t get why they’d pick  _ him, _ not when there’s ten million other humans existing.

“Please let me take you out on a date!” Noticing his hesitation, BebopVox claps both hands together. “I’ve always wanted to go on one, but I can’t ask anybody else!”

Concluding that BebopVox is sincere, Zylina sends Zylus an expectant look. “Well, aren’t you going to ask them on a date?”

“You can say ‘no’, and I’ll go away,” BebopVox says, pouting at the thought.

“Do you want to go on a date?” Zylus mumbles, his mind still reeling that BebopVox asked.

“Yes! Right now, in fact!” BebopVox points outside. “I’ve rented a flyer and everything!” They beam proudly. Zylus didn’t see the extremely expensive hover car parked on the road. It must have either have noise dampeners, BebopVox is an exceptional pilot in the physical world, or he wasn’t paying enough attention to pick up on its landing.

“I’m not dressed properly!” Zylus protests.

“Then go and get dressed!” BebopVox jiggles the keys in their pockets. “I’ll wait here and get to know your mother.” They beam at her. “It’s very important to make a good first impression!”

Zylus stumbles upstairs, abandoning his gardening gloves in an empty pot by the kitchen doorway. He hasn’t been on an enjoyable date in over ten years; the road trip with Daltos was just that: a road trip.

Zylina dragged him off to go clothes shopping a few weeks into his stay. Daltos would have gone too, but Arsenal had taken care of that. Arsenal isn’t on the planet either, thanks to his ironclad loyalty to Daltos. 

She’d insisted that he buy things with the surprise money that Dahl had quietly paid him to keep quiet, about them abandoning the fleet above Pandora. Despite Zylus bracing himself for an unexpected visit, Dahl didn’t seem to care about him, or the other survivors of the incident. That appears to be one of the perks of being missing in action for so long.

Skimming his new wardrobe, Zylus picks a thin jacket with a hood, jeans, sneakers and a graphic print shirt. He’d like to wear Daltos’ jacket, but has a feeling that BebopVox is going to comment on it. He changes, avoiding the jacket on its lonely hanger, not wanting to keep BebopVox waiting. Done, he hurries back to the front hallway.

BebopVox is engrossed in some tale that can only be about Drifters, all ten fingers miming the famous gangly gait of the giant, insectoid beings that inhabited Pandora’s deserts and swamps. Zylina nods, grinning. Zylus already knows that she likes BebopVox. His mother turns scarily polite when she’s on guard. She’s probably ecstatic that he has friends randomly turning up to bother him to notice how eccentric they all are.

“There you are,” Zylina says, noticing Zylus. She picks at his loose collar, folding it down properly against his shoulder. Zylus lets her. “You should have picked that blue jacket. Blue suits your eyes.”

“It’s in the wash,” Zylus says as an flimsy excuse. Zylina doesn’t challenge him, stepping back with a fond look on her face.

BebopVox winks at Zylina. “I’ll have him back in one piece and before the week is out!” They bound out the door, vaulting over the front gate and practically skipping to the parked hover car.

Zylus does the proper thing, unlatching the gate and closing it, checking that it’s locked. BebopVox’s hover car is a sports model. Donning sunglasses, BebopVox is already in the driver’s seat, the hover car vibrating as the engines power up. Zylus has to do a slight crouch to lever himself into the passenger’s side. He attaches the seat belt to himself.

The hover car lifts off, high above the roofs. Children gasp, running to chase down the car. Laughing and waving, BebopVox steers into a sky lane, accelerating.

In the passenger seat, Zylus is thrown back; he braces his legs against the sides of the car, feet pressed against the floor mats. The wind drags through his hair, whipping the hood of his jacket against his neck. He traps it between the seat and his back, not wanting to lose it if it tears off.

“Be– Ridge!” Zylus shouts. “Slow down!”

“I haven’t even hit the max speed limit yet!” BebopVox cheerfully says. They take the deserted lane towards the centre of the city. Other lanes join theirs, bringing traffic. BebopVox merges, slowing the hover car. Only then does Zylus manage to relax.

BebopVox’s driving needs work. BebopVox veers behind a couple of skyscrapers, taking Zylus deeper into the city. It’s approaching sunset, so the city’s nightlife is beginning to wake. Offices dim as people start to head home. Military staff change shifts.

The car descends onto a balcony. BebopVox hops out, followed by Zylus. Pushing their sunglasses onto their head, BebopVox ignores the valet waiting there, choosing to keep the keys on their person. They do overtip the valet (who sprints ahead of them to open the door). 

Zylus takes one step into the restaurant and is immediately overwhelmed by how extravagant it is. Everything oozes class. This is where BebopVox belongs. Here, Zylus is nothing, not even a nobody.

“Reservation for Ridgedog, with their plus one?” BebopVox is already summoning a waiter. The waiter’s lip curls upon seeing Zylus dressed so plainly, but BebopVox is already taking Zylus’ arm, pulling him along.

The waiter leads them to a private booth, taking away the white, glossy place card. It’s shredded. BebopVox pulls out Zylus’ chair, letting him sit first before hopping around to the other side.

This place uses proper paper menus folded into a leather backing, nothing like the easy, convenient holograms that the Maliwan diner had. Zylus is lost when staring at the selections. A master calligrapher’s signature decorates one corner of the menu.

BebopVox is watching him, when he looks up to ask what they’re ordering. Zylus make sure that his feet are tucked underneath the tablecloth so that he doesn’t feel like he’s attracting unwanted attention.

Dinner is a cut of white fish, deboned and served on a bed of curling herbs laden with a gentle helping of pink sauce. Zylus eats it; he’s never caught a fish on Pandora, so he has little experience to draw from and compare.

BebopVox only orders mineral water. They don’t touch it, leaving it on its transparent coaster. The coaster idly cycles through an array of preprogrammed colours, making the water blue, then red, then pink. They watch him eat, elbows on the table, their grin now a smile. Zylus offers BebopVox a bite of the fish. BebopVox takes Zylus’ fork, nibbling on the bit of sauce soaked fish speared on the tines. They make a face, handing the fork back. He laughs.

“You laughed!” BebopVox slumps in their chair, clearly relieved. “I thought you wouldn’t like this place. I went through a lot of loops to get us a reservation!”

“This place is okay. Don’t you need to eat too?” Zylus knows that BebopVox’s body is under intense study by Lalnable. 

The body’s former occupant didn’t leave a manual of how to maintain it lying around. Lalnable’s trying to weasel all the secrets from BebopVox, who thinks it’s a grand game of ‘I’ll tell mine if you tell me yours’.

“No, but I’m still getting used to eating.” BebopVox shrugs. “I think it’s more trouble than it really is, all that chewing, digesting and peristalsis! It’d be much more efficient if everybody had bodies like mine.” At the worried look on Zylus’ face, BebopVox helpfully adds, “Not that I’m going to start forcing that on people, mind. I’ve turned over a new leaf since Pandora!” They look so pleased with themself that Zylus can’t find it in his heart to punch the argument down.

“Just so long as you don’t turn me into a cyborg or anything.” Zylus can’t help a small smile when BebopVox laughs. It’s hard to keep his mind wandering when BebopVox is so attentive to his needs, checking that the food and service is perfect. Zylus reassures them that it is, causing the nearby waiter’s tensed shoulders to slump down in relief as BebopVox moves on.

BebopVox orders wine, picking one off the list. It’s not to the waiter’s liking, judging by their tight-lipped expression but BebopVox is enjoying themself so much to the point of blissful obliviousness. BebopVox pours haphazardly, wine sloshing into theirs and Zylus’ glasses. 

It tastes of fermented Dionysian sourberries, spreading from the top of his tongue to the back of his throat with a cool heat that leaves Zylus blushing; Zylus sips at his water. He almost gasps from how refreshed his tastebuds are, cold water soaking in. BebopVox has no such reaction, merely raising both eyebrows, licking their lips with cat-like approval.

Dessert is frosted cake with, of all things, sprinkles. BebopVox shares a spoonful of the cake with Zylus. “I don’t particularly care for sweet things, but I can see why people would enjoy it.” BebopVox licks their spoon clean anyway, leaving it balanced on top of their glass of untouched mineral water.

They don’t let him see how much the bill is, paying out of sight while Zylus fumbles with all the fittings in the oversized bathroom. BebopVox whisks him away from the rooftop in another nail-biting ride.

“You don’t mind if we stay out a little bit, do you?” BebopVox pulls into a lane, barely concentrating. One hand’s wrapped around the steering wheel, periodically adjusting it. Their other hand rests atop the side door.

By now, the nightlife is in full swing. Hecatoncheires isn’t famed for its attractions as Dionysus, the Edens and Hecate are, but it provides enough to keep the masses happy. BebopVox cruises, keeping them in a designated fast lane. 

“No, not at all.” Zylus watches the scenery fly by. His mother gets that dates run late sometimes, with how bogged the traffic gets at this hour. He pushes a message to her, letting her know that he’s going to stay out tonight. She doesn’t respond, probably asleep.

BebopVox’s uncanny blue eyes stare him down. This is a nice distraction but it’s not what he wants, and Zylus hates how he’s still miserable, sneakily checking his ECHO device while BebopVox was off paying.

The hovercar slows by a ornate, nameless building rivalling the main hospital in size and architecture. BebopVox drops the car off with a second valet, taking Zylus inside. He’s drowsy from the wine as it hits his blood, cycling into his brain to take hold.

BebopVox keeps him steady in the lift, letting him go once they’re sure that he’s not going to faceplant into the floor. Zylus leans against the glass, the city lights foggy and distant to his eyes. He starts when the lift slows, stopping to let him and BebopVox out. BebopVox takes him to a room.

This has to be where they’re staying while they’re visiting him. He can’t really think of why BebopVox would bother with this luxury unless they’re entertaining their whims as Ridgedog.

The lights stay dimmed. BebopVox fetches him a glass of water and a chair. Zylus takes both, ready to take a long nap.

Music begins to fill the room. Zylus knows the song. It’s one of his mother’s favourites, a classical. If it’s deliberate, he doesn’t comment. She’s a music lover. He isn’t, or he doesn’t think he is. His commitment to music doesn’t extend to making it, merely an enjoyment.

“Are you doing all this because Daltos asked you to?” Zylus asks. There’s no point in asking about him to avoid offending BebopVox in thinking that he’s out to fish for information.

Seated in another chair, BebopVox cocks their head to one side. “He didn’t ask me to do anything. I’m here because I choose to be here.”

“Is that the truth?” Zylus stares down BebopVox’s uncanny blue eyes. He sets the empty glass onto the glass table beside him. “I don’t want you just being here to look after me when I can look after myself.”

“Yes. I would never lie to you, Zylus.” BebopVox doesn’t smile, nor so much as twitches a cheek muscle when they say that.

“I believe you.” Zylus smiles gratefully at BebopVox. “Thank you for the date.” He’s not ashamed to say that he passes out in the next second, gracefully sliding down onto the floor to BebopVox’s surprise.

He wakes with the smallest hangover in his brief history of drinking, tucked into BebopVox’s bed. He has no idea where they slept in the meantime, if they even needed to sleep anymore. 

Zylus guiltily wriggles free of the silk sheets; BebopVox is nowhere to be found when he pokes around their hotel room. They left him a message; they have a business appointment on the next planet over, but they’ll see him again when they drop by again (soon!). Predictably, they didn’t leave a date for him to take note of. Also, they paid for the room, so Zylus can leave with no fears of paying.

Zylus catches a taxi back to his house (also paid for by BebopVox; they really did think of everything). His mother’s making breakfast when he stumbles in. She barely bats an eyelid at his mumbled order of ‘poached eggs and toast’, already putting on coffee without him asking.

She has the grace not to pry as to why he’s so embarrassed and hungover.

\--

Zylus takes note of the van sitting on the opposite side of the street. By his count, it’s been there for two days now, motionless and silent. Zylus hasn’t left the house for two days since spotting it, paranoid that it’s Dahl returning to interrogate him about their missing frigate and A.I. (A.I.’s like BebopVox aren’t supposed to be active for so long without ‘supervision’). 

He hasn’t told his mother yet of his concerns, using the excuse of the turn in weather that he’s not feeling well. Zylina ruffles his hair and makes him his favourite tea so that he’s not miserable indoors. He has to hand it to her for not making his fears any worse by confronting him about them on the spot.

It’s a little sad how he’s hiding behind his mother from a mere van. Zylus can see it from the slit in his bedroom’s curtains. For once, he can see a few figures, gaudily dressed, drifting between the van and his neighbour’s house. Each figure carries camera and video equipment.

His mother strolls up the street with her usual hand-pulled trolley that’s bulging with groceries. One of the figures approaches her; she casually rests her hand on her hip, above her digistruct module, trolley halting behind her. Backing away a few steps, the figure begins to gesticulate. They gesture towards her, the house, the street, and the neighbour’s place. 

Zylus can’t lip read from this distance, but he can build a picture from what’s happening. He also tugs on his boots while stickybeaking through the glass. When he looks back up, his mother’s expression is murderous. She puts her hands on her hips, squaring her entire body up.

He rushes out the front door and down the street, hurrying towards her. “Mom! You’re back! Let me help you, that looks heavy.” Zylus takes the trolley’s handle. Heavy is bullshit on his part. His mother could bulldoze a Loader on the spot with her arms if she wanted to.

“Are you Zylus?” The figure beams, rubbing both hands together like they’re plotting. “We’re very interested in how you suddenly showed up on your mother’s doorstep, right out of the blue! Awfully convenient timing, since she doesn’t seem to be as young as she used to be, and the house market’s ripe–”

Zylus looks at his mother, shutting his mouth. No, that’s not why he resurfaced, after a decade of basically being M.I.A., all just to claim his mother’s house and resell it for triple the value. “Whatever they said, it’s all bullshit, I didn’t come back for that.”

“What’d you come back for, then?” The figure’s eagerly whipped a notebook out, pen poised. “Are you an imposter then? Posing as her dead son, trying to jog her addled memories?” 

A tabloid reporter. He should have known one of those would crop up sooner or later.

He’d never be able to fake a forehead scar that runs as deep as bone, or the one permanently marking one eye that he can’t exactly blink fast without it tugging uncomfortably on the inside of his eye socket and stretching the skin covering it. 

“Excuse me, but I have an excellent memory, and I perfectly remember throwing you out years ago for poking around the hospital for dirt on a high profile patient’s discharge!” His mother advances on the tabloid reporter, boots thumping on the sidewalk. “That young woman did the universe a favor for disposing of that horrible artifact! It wasn’t a publicity stunt!”

“Mom, don’t, let’s just go back inside,” Zylus begins. The reporter tries to dodge around her to talk to him, over her rising shouts.

“Did you lie about being stranded? Was it just an elaborate cover?”

“The other soldier who was staying with you– were they also an accomplice so that it’d be more believable?” Another reporter charges in from the sidelines, past his mother’s range.

“How much is Dahl paying you for the feel good story to report?”

Zylus is glad he left Hornet back in the house, or else he’d be handing himself over to the police for murder. His mother yanks him by the hand, swinging the trolley around and pushing it forwards. She uses it like a formidable battering ram; a reporter yanks their foot out of its path before it gets run over.

“Out! Out of my way, I have ice cream to store and if it melts because of your stupidity, you can expect a letter from me and every retired soldier in a thousand mile radius!”

The second the front door snaps shut on the reporter’s protests, Zylina parks the trolley in the kitchen and sits Zylus down. Her nostrils flare as she glares through the wall at the people responsible for writing lies, sowing endless chaos with malicious words.

“Mom,” Zylus says, his voice weak.

“Dear, it’s okay,” She soothes, patting his curled hand. “I’ve dealt with their kind before, and it’s best to call the authorities and get a restraining order set up. No sense in wasting time in talking to them, they don’t listen very well to anything that they can’t distort–“

“It’s not that, it’s–“ Zylus cracks, and squeezes his eyes shut against the imminent rush of unwelcome tears. “I’m scared you believe them.”

Zylina pulls him into a tight hug, running her hand up and over his back. “Hush, I put up with a lot of bull from everyone who thought you did a runner, or cut ties and ran off with your boy because I didn’t approve, or worse.”

“You didn’t believe I’d come back,” Zylus points out as she steers him towards a chair.

“I was skeptical you’d ever come back, but I never stopped hoping you would. That’s something a parent can’t abandon.”

“I wouldn’t know, I’m not a parent.”

“But you do have your friends, and you know what the agony of waiting feels like, don’t you?” She has a point that’s too right. Zylus is silent. “Nobody could impersonate you either. I’d know right away in a heartbeat.”

“How?”

“First, they’d have to get themselves someone who looks at you the way Daltos does.”

“What, like an oblivious idiot?”

“Don’t be rude about people who aren't here.”

“Do the people outside count?”

“Those people aren’t human, they’re media carrion eaters.” He laughs, and Zylina smiles. She kisses his forehead, brushing back a curl of his hair to do so. “I know an old chap just down the block. He’ll get that restraining order of yours filed nice and quick. We’ll also find out who’s behind this.”

He can’t argue with her once she’s on the warpath. She’s doing it on his behalf. He’s grateful, and not at all sorry when several police cars descend on the van and its owners. 

The next door neighbor is interrogated for a few hours by the police. Zylina and Zylus munch popcorn from his bedroom, watching the spectacle of a nosy neighbour sweat buckets over eavesdropping, illegal surveillance, snooping and confidentiality breaches (involving something that BebopVox wrote up and sent to Dahl?).


	6. part six.

BebopVox returns throughout the months to drag Zylus on more dates. At this point, Zylus gives up on sending anything to Daltos. Some stubborn part of him is dead set on waiting. If there’s any news, nobody’s forthcoming. BebopVox can’t say for certain where the frigate is, always mindful of people who might be listening in. They can’t even drop a tiny hint.

It’s a normal evening, by Zylus’ standards. BebopVox is off at a convention for corporates (something about the latest developments in mining tech, nothing he’d be interested or invested in). He doesn’t worry about BebopVox’ surprise visits that much anymore, actually looking forward to them.

Teep sends him letters, miniature puzzles that he chips at, bit by bit. It keeps him occupied, at least. They did include the answers on a separate page, if he’s ever frustrated or wants hints. Everybody else is silent (including Strippin, Benji, Rythian, Ravs, Minty, Arsenal, Lalna, even Lalnable, who’s not normally the most sociable of people).

Otherwise, Zylus drifts. He turns to running, to burn off the restlessness that’s replaced his guilt. When he runs, he concentrates on the impact of his feet against the pavement, his breathing, the street, and the awful but catchy playlist Arsenal, Parvis and FyreUK jokingly put together as the bridge’s PSA hold music.

He kind of wishes he had Dick and Arden with him, or Junior. The three had no problems keeping pace with him.

His life is a cycle of monotonous routine: get up, use bathroom, make breakfast (including one too many cups of coffee), try to be busy for the next twenty hours, go for a run, shower, read in bed, then sleep.

Is this what Daltos had meant by ‘domestic’, being trapped in the same pattern for days on end? He’d kept quiet though, in spite of how he felt.

Zylus reaches the local community park, sweat dripping down his forehead and neck. His shirt is soaked through to his skin, and he forgot to take a towel with him, glancing up so the sweat doesn’t drip into his eyes. It’s an overcast day. The forecast predicts rain. From experience, it’ll stay cloudy until evening. He turns around and heads back home. 

There’s no sense in sticking around the park; there’s too many people spending their weekend bonding and catching up. The happiness in the air makes him want to retch. Proprietary keeps him from actually doing so, and he’s not that petty.

He runs a warm bath, digistructing the tub from the floor. He has to clear away a bunch of bathroom clutter, like a swollen magazine rack, five waterproof books, three lush houseplants and the empty laundry basket but he doesn’t mind, grateful for these mindless tasks. He strips and steps in, watching the water swirl around his bare feet, foamy and unreal.

Shame his mother doesn’t own any bath bombs. Zylus settles in, his head tucked to his knees. He lets the water flow until it hits his shoulders. The tap shuts off automatically as the in-built heaters take over with a faint hum.

Zylus stays that way for the better part of an hour. His mind quiets from a dull, anxious roar to a relaxed stillness mirroring the water around him. He dunks his head, testing to see how long he can hold his breath for. The world swims, disconnected from him by a barrier of water.

He gasps when he breaks the surface. Air slaps him in the face. He hadn’t even lasted ten seconds before his fear of staying under for good caught up with him. Sighing, Zylus reaches for a fluffy towel.

He’s in the middle of preparing dinner when there’s harried knocking at the front door. Zylus tamps his alarm down beneath logic. He leaves the partially butchered cut of meat on the cutting board with the knife. His mother’s home from her retirement summer camp in a week, and he can’t think of anybody who’d bother him now.

He fiddles with the army of locks for a minute, eventually pulling the door back. 

Daltos stands on his doorstep. His pensive expression cheers a little when Zylus answers. 

All Zylus can do is mutely stare at the person who’d left him hanging for several months. 

Daltos awkwardly shifts on the mat, hitching a backpack higher up on one shoulder.

Zylus punches him.

As Daltos is reeling, clutching his nose in one hand, Zylus slams the door shut. Mortified, Zylus slumps against the door. Gravity rearranges him so that he slides down it, hitting the floor with a soft thump. He buries his face in his hands, blushing furiously. His middlemost knuckles throb and sting, pulsating from within.

He’d obeyed some sort of subconscious cue without thinking, he hadn’t really meant to– he starts when Daltos slams a fist against the door, making it leap against Zylus’ back.

“Zylus! I know you’re still there!” He shouts. Zylus scrambles to his feet. The monotony of his life lies shattered. He can’t blame Daltos though. Daltos is  _ here. _ He’s really here. Giddy with happiness, but also cringing at his own reaction, but also pissed, Zylus almost giggles to himself. “You’re probably crying by now–“ Daltos sounds irate. Zylus can’t blame him for that either. He wrenches the door back, almost slamming it into the wall.

“I’m not crying!” Zylus blurts, then realises what he’s just done. He lunges for the door.

“Gotcha.” Daltos jams a boot into the gap, levering it open with a grunt. He slips in, shoving past Zylus. His nose is bleeding, a thin line of blood trickling over his mouth. There’s a smear on his chin from when he’d tried to stem it with his hand.

Sticking his head outside, Zylus spots a neighbor mentally debate on whether or not to call security. He makes a reassuring gesture with his hands, not bothering to see if she actually relaxes, closing the door.

Not alone any longer, Zylus finds Daltos in the kitchen, tilting his head forwards and pinching his nose. Sheepish, Zylus hands him a generous wad of tissues. Daltos accepts them without a word, wiping as much blood as he can from his face. He sits down. The backpack’s dropped by his feet. He glares half-heartedly at him.

“Sorry about the punch,” Zylus mumbles. “I just. I didn’t know how to react.” It’s the best way of putting it.

Daltos’ ire fades, leaving him weary. “I’m sorry about not keeping in touch.”

Well, at least he’s  _ aware _ of it. Zylus deadeyes him. “You left me hanging.” For almost three months.

“I didn’t mean to.” Sighing, Daltos spawns his ECHO device, tapping at it. He flips the screen. On it, there’s about three hundred and fifty-six messages, addressed solely to Zylus. All of them have ‘unsent’ as the status. The last one reads ‘hey, im here’, but it’s drafted, like he hadn’t wanted to send it at the last second. “The frigate dipped into deep space and there’s no ECHOnet reception on the fringes.” He leaves the device on the table, watching Zylus. “Asteroid field knocked out our long range comms too.”

Zylus refuses to gawk. It’s such a simple explanation. More importantly, Daltos had tried. He really had. Zylus hands over his own device; he left just as many messages of his own, unsure if Daltos is getting them, or simply ignoring him. Daltos taps at Zylus’ messages, skimming them.

Daltos’ device starts flashing. He’s grinning. Zylus snatches his device back. All of the unsent messages are sending, as of that second. “No!”

“Why not?” Daltos is laughing, and the sound makes something warm and soft curl up in Zylus’ chest. “I want to read everything you sent me!” He drops his voice to a hideous parody of Ravs’ special flirting tone. “Everything.”

“I didn’t send you any nudes or anything dirty!” Zylus huffs, putting away his own device. All of the messages will take a while to reach him. Some of them have been paragraphs of Zylus’ random thoughts, closer to journal entries than proper messages. He can’t exactly remember half of what he wrote, a decent portion being spur of the moment musings.

Daltos taps his own device. Zylus’ HUD begins to fill with notifications. He silences it, eyeing Daltos. Daltos shrugs. “What? Might as well send you all the goods too.”

“You’re hideous,” Zylus retorts, without any real venom behind his words. Daltos knows, still grinning. Zylus returns to cooking.

Daltos retrieves his backpack. He stands. “I’m gonna shower. We can talk more after dinner.”

“I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.” Zylus flips the meat, cutting it into thinner slices. He hears Daltos leave the room, heading down the hallway. Half an hour later, Zylus leaves both plates where they are. “Daltos? Dinner’s ready.” Daltos doesn’t respond, so Zylus goes looking.

The guest room’s door isn’t how he left it, but that’s not where Zylus goes. He opens the door to his bedroom, knocking first to let Daltos know that he’s there. He stops dead, his breath catching in his throat. 

Daltos is asleep in his bed, curled up on his side. He’s still dressed, though his boots are abandoned on the floor and his jacket is partially unzipped.

Zylus checks his messages. He reads the last three, saving the others for later. One is Daltos saying that the frigate’s back from its survey. The one after that is Daltos letting him know that he’s arrived at the local train station. The last one follows, thirty seconds later: see you soon.

Zylus steps in. He tugs away the backpack, leaving it in a place where Daltos can see it once he wakes up. Carefully, he unzips Daltos’ jacket, hanging it up. Daltos is so heavily asleep that he doesn’t even stir, when he normally wakes up, just for a bit to see what’s happening. Zylus tucks him in, folding the sheets around him. He sets the lights to low, carefully closing the door.

Dinner can wait.

Daltos wakes about three hours later. He borrows the shower, emerging in clean clothes and missing five days worth of stubble. That’s more like the man Zylus knows. 

Zylus reheats dinner, and when Daltos is done wiping his bread all around the plate to catch the last stray bits of gravy, Zylus pulls dessert out of the freezer. He bought it two weeks ago in a random fit of indulgence, but then felt guilty, seeing as he hadn’t done anything to deserve it.

The two eat the ice cream; something nutty and creamy, with shredded bits of white fruit flesh sprinkled inside it. Daltos finishes his portion while Zylus is halfway through his. He eyes Zylus’ bowl until Zylus permits him a few extra scoops. Still hungry, Daltos steals the carton to eat straight from it. Zylus rescues the tub but only after Daltos devours half of it between dodges. Disgusted, Zylus surrenders the remainder to a pleased Daltos.

Zylus continues to huff when Daltos looks at him. As in, really looks. He’s not laughing anymore, and the swift change from joking around to dead serious makes Zylus’ stomach churn with building tension. Daltos places the empty tub and spoon by his dirty plate, peering at Zylus.

“Hey, you got something on your mouth.” Daltos reaches for his face; he hasn’t worn gloves the entire evening. His bare hand curls against Zylus’ face. It’s slightly chilled and wet from the tub’s condensate, but Zylus settles into it. It doesn’t occur to him to even shiver.

Daltos’ thumb is barely an inch away from Zylus’ mouth. It’s touching the corner where Zylus once beaned himself in the face with his own hand when tending to a technical. Embarrassing, but it’d unfortunately left a faint scratch behind as a memento. Zylus doesn’t have to let his eyes drift down to a slash of a scar on Daltos’ thumb, between the lower curve of his fingernail and bony joint. Daltos claims it’d been from a vicious mutiny. It looked suspiciously like a certain kraggon got too friendly with his hand.

Before Zylus can think about how to react, Daltos’ thumb clears away the stray bit of ice cream stuck to Zylus’ mouth. He neatly licks the melted fragment from his hand with a quick swipe of his tongue. Zylus stares longer than what’s socially acceptable, abruptly moving to clean up before Daltos can catch onto his mild arousal.

Maybe he did anyway, because Daltos doesn’t touch him again after that, not until they’re both getting ready for bed. Zylus made an attempt on the guest room, mostly to keep himself busy. Well, he tried. Daltos must have realised that the bed inside is still buried under boxed piles of Zylus’ childhood memorabilia and his parents’ unsorted belongings.

He defaulted to Zylus’ bed rather than clearing away a space for himself. Zylus is both pleased and chagrined about this; he’s quietly worried about any unspoken changes in sleeping arrangements. That is, until Daltos bounces on the edge of the bed and notices his hesitation.

“Come here,” He murmurs, taking the furthest side. 

Zylus crawls in, not wanting to keep him waiting. His head ends up resting against Daltos’ chest, listening to his heart beat. Something inside of Zylus relaxes into the familiar sound and the warmth under him.

Six hours later, a weight by Zylus’ side shifts, the mattress dipping. The motion sends an alarmed signal to Zylus’ subconscious, jolting him awake. Zylus blinks, catching himself reaching for his ECHO device. He spots a dark shape grabbing a jacket off the floor and tugging it on.

“Where are you going?” Zylus sits up. Daltos turns to face him. Both their cybernetic eyes fill the dark with spots of soft, blue light.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” Daltos sheepishly clips his digistruct module onto his belt.

“It’s okay. I needed the bathroom anyway,” Zylus lies. He shrugs off the inclination to return to sleep like a pro. “Is it the frigate? Do you need to go back?”

“No, the frigate’s fine. I’m actually hungry again, but too lazy to make something to eat,” Daltos admits. He laughs, still sheepish. “Lalnable says I should be eating more if I don’t want to drop a size in clothes.”

“I agree with him.” Zylus pushes the sheets off to grab his own modules and clothes. “There’s a good place near here that’s open all the time.” He pauses as he laces his boots up. “Want to head there?”

“Sure,” Daltos agrees.

The street is deserted. Lamps stand guard against the darkness. Zylus leads the way. Nobody else is prowling the dark, save for road sweepers in their hulking, twin brushed machines. 

Zylus found this place by accident when taking a wrong turn to his therapist. He’d ended up being too early to his appointment, doubling back to buy food and eating while waiting. Having his stomach growl during the introductions is probably not an ideal first impression to make.

He buys a burger, splurging spare change on extra sauce. Daltos buys an all-out wrap, matchstick fries and a fizzy drink. The place is quiet. They both mill by the counter until the cashier slides over their food on a shared tray. Zylus picks a booth to settle in.

The two eat, sharing the fries. Daltos pries the paper off his wrap. Zylus almost spits out the mouthful of soda he’s just taken; the top of Daltos’ wrap is overflowing.

WIthout any change in expression, Daltos meticulously picks out his excess greens, one by one. Zylus steals them, plopping each reject on top of his soft, browned meat patty. He missed fresh greens. Back on Pandora, there weren’t any greens that really crunched and snapped when bit into, tolerating the bland, haggard and neon green bits that got shipped and traded to T-Bone Junction. Zylus has an impressive pile of discarded bits by the time Daltos is done; Daltos glances at the cashier, raising a single eyebrow at them. The cashier sinks below the counter like they’re standing on quicksand. 

Daltos glances back down at his dissected wrap. “Do you think they were too distracted and accidentally gave me too many greens?”

Zylus pauses in chewing, then answers while nonchalantly concealing a flare of jealousy, “Probably.” 

He doesn’t blame them, though. Daltos is very easy on the eyes, and has yet to realise it himself like Ravs has.

\--

Daltos returns every few weeks. Zylina is delighted that he’s still alive; she keeps foisting food onto him to take back to the frigate. Most of it happens to be bread so he can’t leave it forgotten in a locker or else it’ll birth some sort of new lifeform. Besides, she recruits Zylus into her self-appointed quest to feed the entire crew. Maybe showing her all those vacation photos and telling her who’s who was a mistake.

Daltos complimented her baking skills on his next visit. “I had to hide some of it in my inventory once I opened up the crate, but I can definitely see where Zylus gets it from.”

“Oh, I made sure he didn’t just get my good looks,” Zylina said, chortling. “Besides, he does most of the baking these days. I just make sure he’s not playing favourites by sneaking extras into your share of the loot.”

Zylus looked away, muttering something about ‘making sure that Daltos had extra to look forward to.’

In private, Daltos confesses that he usually hates shore leave, but Nanosounds and everybody else won’t take no for an answer. 

“You don't mind if I keep dropping by to stay with you?” He asks, late one evening.

“No,” Zylus says, genuinely surprised that he thinks that he’s imposing. “You’re always welcome here.” 

Daltos says nothing to that, smiling as he looks away.

\--

– / / NOW PLAYING ECHO LOG. / / –

Daltos, I’m still in love with you.

– / / NOW ENDING ECHO LOG. / / –

\--

Every visit brings a new surprise. Zylus’ brain clicks when he’s separating laundry with Daltos. He leans across to Daltos’ shoulder. Daltos glances at him, raising both eyebrows. 

“Are you  _ sniffing _ me?” He folds the shirt in his hands, dropping it onto the pile that’s not his.

“When did you stop smoking?” Zylus definitely smells an absence of smoky undertone to Daltos. He couldn’t put his finger on what’d been missing since Pandora.

Daltos stares at him. He grins. “I stopped smoking after we left Pandora.”

“I–  _ what?” _ Zylus boggles at this delayed revelation, and him.

“Arsenal couldn’t believe it either.” Daltos goes back to folding, shaking his head. He’s still grinning as Zylus tries to handle this new information. “I  _ told _ him and everyone that I wasn’t addicted.”

“Really? You’ve quit permanently?” Zylus is glad Zylina didn’t find out when she met him; she’d have talked him into signing up for the quitter’s club. It would have worked. Probably.

“I bet Minty that I could quit faster than her. She’d give me a box of her best, personal moonshine if I won. Still have it, though I split it with her since it was a draw. I’m also trying to cut back on drinking.” Daltos rests his hands in his lap.

It humbles Zylus to know that he’s trying his best to make a better life from what post-Pandora dealt him. There aren’t a lot of future options that exist for ex-Dahl soldiers, especially those that left without even a discharge notice to their name. Death certificates didn’t count.

Zylus undid his own funeral, discovering in the process that Dahl coughed up his backpay and hefty compensation without a single fight, withdrew suspicions of treason and mutiny and wrote him a glowing letter of recommendation, just in case he basically ‘changed his mind about not returning to military service’ with his rank intact.

Disgusted that they didn’t waste an opportunity to attempt recruiting him again, Zylus fed the letter through his mother’s heavy duty paper shredder. His mother cheered. Daltos hasn’t said anything about what Dahl did for stranding him on Pandora, but Zylus is certain that he’s being left well alone despite  _ The Blackrock _ falling under his legally questionable ownership. 

\--

– / / NOW PLAYING ECHO LOG. / / –

Um. Please ignore that last bit. I was talking in my sleep and forgot to switch off my ECHO device after recording a message.

– / / NOW ENDING ECHO LOG. / / –

\--

Back on Pandora, takeout was restricted to frozen dinners marked on the ration special sales, and local cuisines. Zylina helps Zylus get reacquainted with some childhood favourites, and more. This in turn, fuels Zylus’ adventures into sharing said finds with Daltos. Sure, takeout isn’t banned on  _ The Blackrock,  _ but nobody wants to pay an arm and a leg for instant delivery or suffer the indignities from chowing down on two week old tacos.

Zylus doesn’t want any souvenirs from the places Daltos visits, aware that it’s not always possible for them to go topside. Daltos always delivers a stack of postcards anyway. They’re static and unmoving, printed on sturdy paper stock. They always smell of graphite. Zylus keeps them all in a shoebox, dating each one of them in his careful handwriting. They’re his secret treasures, even if there’s nothing written on the back.

He doesn’t know how long Daltos spends in dinky little tourist traps to pick out the postcards, but it has to be long enough for him to find the most picturesque ones.

“You know that’s not the only thing he hangs onto of yours, right?” Zylina winks and nudges Daltos in the arm. “Here, look!”

“No!” Zylus almost crashes into the couch’s side trying to stop her from showing him the image of him sleeping in Daltos’ navy jacket.

Daltos stares at the photo for a few tense seconds. “Can I please get a copy?”

Zylus fumes at his mother but not for long. His mother always leaves him alone with Daltos in the evening. It’s not even subtle how she makes her exit. That’s fine by Zylus, he has other things on his mind.

“I-I want s-s-“ Zylus tugs on Daltos’ sleeve. Why is it so hard to say that he craves sex?

“Sushi?” Daltos guesses, his hand hovering over the menu.

“No!”

“Too bad, I already ordered it!” Zylus gives up for the evening. It’s hard to be in a bad mood when he’s eating sushi though, and he forgives Daltos easily when Daltos ordered the largest platter available.

“Can we…?” Zylus tries again the next time.

“Absolutely not.” Daltos’ flat refusal is firm.

“Oh.” Zylus’ disappointment appears as a slight pout.

“Are you kidding me? Of course we can.” Daltos laughs. He leaves the room and comes back with a jar of Mite, crackers and cheese. 

Zylus looks at the ceiling.

\--

“You can ask anything of me, and I’ll do it,” Daltos murmurs. He hugs Zylus closer, until Zylus’ head is resting on his shoulder, and Zylus is breathing in the familiar smell of skin and musk that’s him.

“Please stay with me forever,” Zylus almost says. Instead, he closes his eyes and says, “Meet the rest of my family tomorrow.”

_ “What?”  _ Daltos stares at Zylus, who remains silent.

Fine, not because he wants to but because Zylus asked.

\--

“Take me with you,” Zylus blurts just as Daltos is heaving open the front door.

“I can get the takeout by myself, thank you very much,” Daltos dryly says. He catches sight of Zylus’ determined expression. “Wait, what’re you talking about?”

“I want to go with you back to the frigate.”

“Are you sure?” Daltos closes the door with a snap. “If you think you’re happier here, then stay–“

“I don’t  _ want _ to stay,” Zylus mutters. “I  _ want _ to go with you.” He knows he sounds like a petulant child who’s being denied a present by their parent, but Daltos of all people, should understand. 

He does. “Sure, just let me contact Nanosounds and we’ll get it all sorted.”

The first change is his mother. Zylina wants to come aboard, following her son to the stars. Zylus doesn’t argue. His mother knows what she’s capable of, and frankly, Lalnable is so glad to have help that he insists on meeting her in person as she arrives on the frigate. 

Besides, Zylus trusts him with her. Well, she can take care of herself, but people can’t make fun of him for letting his mom stick around.

Zylina leaves the house in the hands of his capable cousins. Zylus and her spend a memorable week packing everything they needed and wanted. His mother fits everything into five storage units, including almost the entire contents of her kitchen. Cooking’s important to her and Zylus, and both plan to keep up the habit back on  _ The Blackrock. _

The second change is that he moves all his things into Daltos’ room, vacating his own. He gives that old room to his mother. Daltos doesn’t mind that Zylus takes up three entire lockers and has two storage units lined with books magnetized to one wall.

People welcome Zylus back. They understood that he’d needed time to collect his thoughts (and he’s right; he had needed the rest). He takes up his old role on the bridge, acting as engineer, navigator and frigate pilot.

\--

Planetside food to the ship bound is viewed as a precious goal. It’s not unheard of for crews to buy in bulk. Those sharp to ride the profit train happily accepted mass orders from hungry patrons, especially if they numbered in the hundreds.

Arsenal and Daltos used to bulk up in nuggets. How could such tiny bits of questionable meat slathered in bread crumbs and flour before being deep fried in oil have such a profound, delightful effect on the human psyche?

The boot shaped ones are the best, obviously.

The two are currently sloshed, parked on the curb outside a takeout place. It’s one of the few chains boasting a shop on every planet (except for Pandora, which shut down due to a failure to anticipate consumer demand and arrange supplies accordingly, and by the time all the bandits realised that maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to torch the place and the poor employees, they turned the burnt remains into a place of religious worship, mourning the nugget).

Why are they sloshed? Neither can remember. They’d been struck by a craving for nuggets. Something to do with the irresistible scent of it wafting down the street did something to their hindbrain. The nuggets called. Daltos and Arsenal jolted awake thanks to the heat of the grande coffee sized cups in their hands. Worried about accidentally dropping the precious goods, Arsenal and Daltos stayed put and ate.

“I didn’t get a toy,” Arsenal bemoans, pawing through the nuggets left in his cup.

“You didn’t want one, they offered and you said that they didn’t have the one you wanted in stock, so you got all huffy and said wouldn’t accept any consolation toys,” Daltos calmly corrects.

He dips his nugget into the meagre remains of the special sauce provided in a little recyclable hanging box that dangled from the edge of his cup (patent pending).

Offended that he’s been corrected so blatant, Arsenal leans over. He slaps the sauce box off. “If I can’t have a toy, you can’t have sauce with your nugs.”

Daltos blinks at the upside-down box spilling nothing onto the pavement. He sadly holds up his last nugget, the last beacon of hunger banishment.

“I gotchu,” Arsenal declares. He plucks the last nugget from Daltos’ hand and devours it in one bite in front of him.

Daltos’ gaze takes in the upturned sauce box, the ghost of a nugget in his hand, and Arsenal’s stupid, grinning face. He stares for a few tense seconds. He takes a deep breath. Arsenal sits cluelessly next to him, licking his fingers.

“HOW DARE YOU, OFFICER DANNY, DEVOUR LAST NUGGET WITHOUT SPECIAL SAUCE?” Daltos yells.

Arsenal and Daltos don’t remember much after that, but Vox tells Arsenal that they went their separate ways after returning to the frigate. Nothing seemed particularly off, except Daltos wouldn’t stop making pinching crab motions with one hand and staring at it.

Morning arrives, and Arsenal is pointlessly bright as usual. He has a nagging feeling that he upset Daltos last night but can’t put his finger on why or what or how. His usual amend is to bring the guy coffee. Best friends could get away with cheaty gestures that only minions dream of.

Daltos is in a typical mood pre-caffeine, a touch grumpy. It’s his shift on  _ The Blackrock _ today, and it’s Zylus who usually brings him coffee or a bridge crew member but Arsenal beats them to the punch.

“Here’s your coffee, just how you like it.” Arsenal slides into the conversational gap like a champion hockey player aiming for a concussed goalie. “Hi Zylus!”

“Hi.” Zylus isn’t on shift today so he’s going downstairs after this to get his own breakfast.

Daltos squints at the coffee. He’s not too hungover as to forget why he’s a teensy bit bothered by Arsenal. “Thanks,” He says in a monotone, accepting the coffee and sipping it.

Arsenal thinks it’s all fine and dandy, turning to go. “Well, I got lists to check, so I’ll just go!”

“SAUCE?!” Daltos yells at him.

“What did you do to him?” Zylus jumped, as well as every bridge crew person working within a metre.

“Nothing!” Arsenal says, and sprints off before Daltos can continue yelling at him and someone calls Minty upstairs.

Two hours later, the PSA clicks on with a minor buzz of static. 

Arsenal’s in the mess hall, fending off the kraggons. It’s  _ his _ spaghetti. It’s also indigestible to kraggons but that didn’t stop them from wanting whatever he ate like greedy little bastards.

“This is an announcement directed at officer Arsenal ‘nugget snatcher with complete disregard for the dunk protocol’ Danny,” Daltos begins, then briefly pauses, before yelling, “SAUCE?”.

“Danny’s not my last name!” Arsenal protests, forgetting that his kraggons are battling him.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Dick and Arden shove their craggy snouts into his spaghetti and snarf it all down, sending bits of sauce, pasta and meat everywhere.

“Is there any way I can stop you yelling ‘sauce’ every single time we meet?” Arsenal asks. “I’ll do anything!”

He’s a tad desperate. The public announcements have been nonstop. He’s asked FyreUK to try to soften the announcements, and they can’t given who they’re dealing with. Everyone is annoyed with him. Nobody’s uppity with Daltos because he’s currently in charge of  _ The Blackrock,  _ and people annoying him could suddenly find their destinations pushed back a day or so if he feels exceedingly petty.

Daltos lifts his head to contemplate the offer. It’s rare that Arsenal is waving the white flag. Arsenal is fully prepared to shred the flag if Daltos is going to be vicious about taking advantage of it.

“Give me all your boot shaped nuggets for the next month,  _ and _ special sauce,” Daltos says, smirking like a true victor.

“Deal,” Arsenal sighs. It’s a small price to pay for peace.

\--

“People on this frigate don’t wear bras.” Daltos has stopped eating, staring hard at his bowl of soup. “Not lately, that is.”

“Statement, or observation?” Arsenal inquires.

“Statement?” Daltos says, picking one since he doesn’t want to think too hard about the difference.

“I dunno what you’re doing in your free time then,” Arsenal says, giving him a pitying look that makes Daltos want to throw bread at him.

Daltos flicks through his calendar. He closes it, standing up and ignoring his soup. “Hold on, I gotta do damage control.”

Chuckling, Arsenal brings up the local video channel. He sips at his juice, watching Minty throw a burning torch into a metal barrel. Sparkles is on standby with a fire extinguisher. 

Minty raises a megaphone to shout into it, “Burn all the bras!”

“Burning bras is not how you should celebrate galactic women’s day.” Pause. “Stop booing, it’s Zylus who’s making me say this.” Another pause. “Yes, I’m whipping, and I love it.” Pause. “Here Zylus, I saved you one.”

Muffled noises follow briefly, then a yell: “I don’t want it!”

“Don’t throw it!”

“Parvis!”

“Woot, free bra!”

\--

\- / / NOW PLAYING ECHO LOG. / / -

Minty: Now tune in Arsenal’s slice of life!

Arsenal: Tinklefeet are this season’s newest look.

Minty: Looks like you’re getting a caller! Let’s see who it is.

Arsenal: Hewwo?

Daltos: Get off the PSA. FyreUK, why are you letting them do this?

BruteAlmighty: For fun!

IFirez: Can’t argue with our listeners who love verbal nightblogging and shitposting!

Arsenal: Just for you, daddy’s giving away free chocolate coins for the next half hour on the bridge.

Daltos: I’m not!

Parvis: Hey, where’s my free coin?

Daltos: Arsenal, you’re a public menace.

Arsenal: Crime in the streets, sweet in the sheets, that’s me.

Daltos: He’s a liar.

Arsenal: He’s right!

Parvis: I dunno who to believe, but I really want my coin, so.

Daltos: Oh, for—

\- / / NOW ENDING ECHO LOG. / / -

\--

Zylus hoards one feeling that he hasn’t told Daltos about yet. He’s not sure what it is. It’s been with him for a long time now. The precise moment it’d sprung into existence continues to elude him.

It’s not residual anger. This isn’t anything like a hidden blade poised to strike, crafted out of frayed tempers and honed by the sharpest, cruelest words.

It flutters in his stomach, making his heart contract at random times. Mostly, it’s when he’s looking at him. He doesn’t have to be near him to feel it. It’s always a relief to see him again, even if it’s only been a few hours (the miracle of shifts means that there’s not a lot of days they can spend together).

Daltos thinks of him too; he’s not as open about it as Zylus is, preferring quieter, subtler ways of showing it. Zylus notices each gesture when he can. It’s obvious sometimes, like how he leaves video messages in their room if they haven’t met up recently. Others take some deduction; Zylus hadn’t clued into how he made one of Zylus’ favourite dishes a monthly treat, not until he’s had it for three months in a row, and he’d asked Honeydew about it. Honeydew had thought he’d  _ known. _

He realises exactly what it is when he awakens a little earlier than usual. Out of habit, he shifts onto his side. Daltos is still dreaming. Daltos’ grey streaks have taken quicker root amongst black, slivers visible from a few metres. He still turns heads, even if he doesn’t notice. Zylus likes them even if Daltos wants to get rid of them. They make him look distinguished. He’d laughed at that, and gave away his hair dye to Ravs.

His laugh is special, to Zylus.  _ He’s _ special to Zylus.

_ Oh. _

Zylus holds the realisation in his mind, cradling it like he would a fragile, newly born idea. Really, he should have realised it sooner. Bit silly, really.

He takes Daltos’ left hand, making a measurement, noting it carefully into his HUD. Zylus replaces the hand on the pillow and gets up, taking care not to disturb Daltos.

\--

“Have you popped the question yet?” BebopVox inquires. The way they’d asked is so casual; Zylus looks down at the metal floor, suddenly interested in how the tiles appear to have been repainted twice. “No?” He’s not going to ask how they suspect what Zylus is up to.

“Not yet,” Zylus mumbles. He’s waiting for the right time.

“What are you waiting for?” BebopVox points out.

They have a point. If he doesn't ask him soon, he’ll never ask him. Zylus breaks into a run, sliding around corners. People sidestep him, letting him pass. He makes it to his shared room, panting lightly.

Daltos is inside; Zylus had told him that he’d be gone for a brisk walk. He enters the door code, slipping in. Daltos is sitting on the couch, his long legs taking up the entirety of it. He silently moves his legs so Zylus can sit down next to him.

Zylus takes the hand closest to him. He squeezes it. Daltos squeezes back, not taking his eyes off the page he’s on. 

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” Zylus confesses.

“Aren’t we already doing that?” Daltos distractedly responds.

“Yes, but I mean– will you marry me?” The question pops out of him at lightspeed. It carries all the weight of his hopes in four, mere words.

“Nah,” Daltos says. He slowly turns a page using his thumb. How is it that he can be so flippant, with just a single word?

Zylus lets go of his hand like he’s just been burned. He’d thought– well, that’s not so unexpected, but Zylus had assumed– he must still mean what he said, about not seeing himself married to anyone. He’s been deluding himself all along. Daltos clearly doesn’t care.

Daltos picks up on the shift in atmosphere. He frowns, looking up, then sees Zylus. He drops the book onto his lap, where it immediately slides off onto the floor. “Oh shit, you were  _ serious?” _

“How could you possibly think I was joking?” Zylus irritably snaps. He hasn’t snapped at him in a while; the brief burst of anger is empowering, but also, risky to hang onto. Breathing through his nose so he doesn’t sniffle, he stands up, clutching a tiny box that’s now dead weight in one fist.

Daltos grabs his other hand. “Wait, I change my mind–“

Zylus knocks his hand away, retorting, “You’re just saying that because you feel guilty!”

“No, that’s not why–“

“Yes, it is!” Zylus snaps again, storming into the bathroom. The click of the door locking is too loud in the room.

Staring at the bathroom door, Daltos waits for Zylus to emerge. When he doesn’t, he puts away the book he’d been reading, and goes to find Arsenal. Arsenal’s on the bridge. His two kraggons are nowhere in sight, probably being looked after by appointed volunteers. Arsenal zooms towards him when he spots him. He bought a hover scooter on his last leave, performing a spin and a jump on it, perfectly landing on his two feet. Hawker applauds from their console before turning back, not wanting to be reprimanded by Hurricane.

“What’s with your face? A face as pretty as yours can’t be seen moping.” Arsenal tries to pull his cheeks. Daltos avoids his grabby hands, pushing him away. “A sad daddy is a crime!”

“Shut up, I need to talk to you,” Daltos hisses, urgency in his voice. Arsenal raises an eyebrow, immediately taking him into the war room.

It’s like old times. Arsenal seals the doors, leaning against the table. A bunch of sweets fill the bowl in the middle. Arsenal takes one, unwrapping a taffy. He pops it into his mouth. “So, what’s up?”

Daltos has to replay the moment in his own mind a few times before he can make sense of it. “Zylus asked me to marry him, and I thought he was joking and said ‘no.’”

Arsenal stops chewing. He stares before spitting the candy back into its wrapper, stowing it into one of the many pockets lining his jacket. He marches over, grabbing Daltos by the front of his shirt. “YOU’RE NOT FUCKING WITH ME, ARE YOU?”

“Stop shouting!” Daltos grabs Arsenal’s wrists. He’s glad they’re having this conversation in the war room so people can’t stare or start gossiping. “Why the fuck would I lie about something like this?”

“You’re mean, but not that mean,” Arsenal notes. He still hangs onto Daltos. He looks like he wants to keep shaking him, his hands twitching.“But seriously, why the fuck would you break his poor, lovesick heart like that?”

“I didn’t mean to!” Daltos tugs on his wrists. “I just didn’t think he’d ask after so long!”

“Know what, you’re the densest person in the galaxy,” Arsenal hisses. “He’s been wanting to ask ever since he nipped off to get the rings made. I thought you knew!” Daltos slowly shakes his head. Arsenal gives a little, frustrated shove, releasing him. “I can’t believe you said ‘no’, he must be so hurt.”

“Shut up, I’ll fix it, even if I have to figure out how to time travel,” Daltos grumbles.

“You’d fucking better,” Arsenal threatens. Daltos moves to leave the room, the doors parting. “AND Y’AIN’T ALLOWED BACK IN MY PRESENCE UNTIL ONE OF YOU SAYS ‘YES.’” Arsenal’s shouting causes everyone on the bridge to stare as Daltos exits the war room. “AND I GET TO BE YOUR BEST MAN.”

“Stop saying that, and in your dreams!”

“NEVER!”

\--

Daltos finds the rings in the bathroom bin. He fishes them out, wiping down their box with a wet but soft rag. Once it’s dry, he tucks it into his side pocket. 

After that day, Zylus keeps him at arm’s length. It’s definitely hurtful, what he’s doing. Daltos keeps getting looks of daggers from Arsenal. Arsenal’s the only one who knows but people are starting to suspect. It’s not a matter of his reputation, but it’s been three days and Zylus’s depressed mood isn’t improving one bit.

He’s usually already asleep (or pretending to be) whenever Daltos returns to their room. Daltos doesn’t want to push him into changing his mind; he has a hunch that it’ll worsen the situation, and it’s already bad enough as it is.

It’s torture but he counts down a week. By then, Zylus is a little bit better. Daltos finds him sitting on the bed, folding clothes. Zylus starts when he slips in. He’d probably wanted to be asleep but Daltos deliberately finished his shift early to catch him awake.

He moves to put everything away. Daltos intercepts him, reaching for Zylus’ hand. Zylus’ hand curls inward. Daltos pauses, then retracts his own hand. Zylus is watching him, poker faced.

Daltos drops to one knee, pulling out the box. “Zylus, will you marry me?”

Zylus opens his mouth. He closes it, his hands flying up to hide the lower half of his face. He stands and turns on his heel, striding into the bathroom. The door locks before Daltos can get up and go after him. He’s been left in the lurch, again.

Faced with no option aside from wait, Daltos sits on the bed. The twin rings gleam in their box. Daltos stares at them, marveling at how one question could upset someone’s life. He’s never put much into symbols, but he gets why Zylus wants to marry him. Certainly, the logic is sound but the sentiments are another thing entirely.

He lets Zylus have his little moment. Zylus emerges from the bathroom, looking the calmest he’s been in several weeks. The bed dips when he sits next to Daltos. He takes one of Daltos’ hands. 

Anxious, Daltos watches him.

“Yes,” Zylus breathes, and Daltos immediately sighs in relief.

“Thank fuck, I didn’t have a backup plan for what happened if you said the opposite.” 

Zylus laughs, and kisses him.

\--

The news spreads throughout the frigate with abnormal speed. Daltos blames it on Arsenal; he’s announced it no less than fifteen times across two days via the FyreUK’s system. People are constantly bestowing congratulations on the two. Already annoyed, Daltos grits his teeth and says ‘thanks’, while Zylus looks like he still can’t believe that it’s really happening.

Will Strife and Sherlock leap on another chance to play wedding planners. BebopVox elbows their way into helping as well. Zylina is overjoyed that she’s finally getting Daltos as a ‘son-in-law’. She is however, puzzled that he hasn’t contacted his immediate family, as with Zylus.

Zylus knows that he has family. Daltos remarked that he has one sister, plus a set of extended family beyond his parents. He doesn’t keep in regular touch with them.

Well, half of Zylus’ family is turning up to the wedding. They're going to ask awkward questions unless something’s done. Zylus peeks at Daltos’ guest list on the desk. There’s barely any people listed who aren’t Vault Hunters or bandits.

“I don’t think my family cares a lot about who I’m getting married to.” Daltos sees him looking, shaking his head.

“I think they would?” Zylus points out. “I mean, if they’re the kind of people who like weddings.”

“They are. I just don’t see why I can’t tell them after?”

“They’d still probably want to be there to see you marry me?” Zylus argues.

“I dunno.” Daltos shrugs. “I’ve never been that close with them in the first place.”

“Let’s ask anyway.” He still doesn’t look especially convinced, but Zylus adds, “We can figure out later what to do if none of them arrive.”

“Only because you asked.” Daltos sighs and picks up his ECHO device. He wanders off to pace the hallway, away so Zylus can’t hear. He returns, a look of pleasant surprise on his face. “They do want to attend, and want to know why they haven’t met you yet.”

“Told you they would.” Zylus smiles at him. “They’re family, after all.” Daltos smiles back. The relaxing peace doesn’t last that long.

Planning a wedding is unlike anything that the two have done. They’re not in any big rush to be properly married, but people seem to think they are. It’s ridiculous how so many people want to offer their own opinion on how to organize it.

“We should have gotten married bandit-style and told them all after.” Daltos closes the fashion magazine that Sherlock told him to browse through. He drops it on top of the reject pile.

“How do bandits marry?” Zylus absently flicks through a list of potential wedding venues. 

He particularly likes Hecatoncheires’ famous wineries. The vast vineyards located atop the mountains overlooking the storm ridden grasslands sound lovely. Not everyone likes that much rain or thunderstorms. It’s not their wedding though. Zylus marks it for later, moving onto the next.

“It’s easy. We get two rings, slap them on each other’s fingers, get drunk with all the invited gangs and that’s it. None of this suit shopping, picking the cake bullshit or dealing with the guest list.” Daltos snorts. He adds, in a low, daring voice, “Hey, let’s do it. Arsenal could marry us on the spot if I asked him to.”

“No,” Zylus firmly says, because one of them has to be sensible about this. Or try to be, even if Arsenal would be thrilled to oversee it. “BebopVox is already paying for it, so I don’t want to disappoint them by being married beforehand.”

“Fine.” Daltos sighs. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

He rejects five different suits in succession, causing Strife to dump frustrated messages into his HUD. Daltos ignores Strife. Strife’s taken it upon himself to pick matching suits for Zylus and Daltos, an undertaking hampered by Daltos’ pickiness.

Zylus brings up the shared chat, dipping in to try to save Strife before Strife shows up in person to throttle Daltos. “Why don’t you like these suits?”

“They’re too much like our Dahl uniforms,” Daltos notes. “Therefore, I hate them.”

“All you had to do was tell Strife so he doesn’t think you’re just being a prick.” Zylus leaves a message for Strife to find once he’s stopped stewing in a huff that Daltos doesn’t agree with his taste. He thinks that the stress of this wedding is getting to his husband to-be. “Let’s take a break.”

“Good idea.” Daltos mutes his HUD, joining Zylus on the couch, leaning against him. “Any ideas for the honeymoon?”

It’s a little bit strange to hear that kind of ordinary talk from him; Zylus is already used to it, not thinking second thoughts whenever he hears it.

“Definitely not Pandora.” Zylus doesn’t want to go back there if he can help it.

“That reminds me.” Daltos sits up, looking at Zylus. He’s suddenly serious, piquing Zylus’ curiosity. “I invited my old gang’s lieutenants from there. Hope that’s okay with you. They might join up with the crew after since things aren't going so well on Pandora for them.”

“Of course it is.” Zylus turns the page before he lifts his head.

“They’ll be on their best behaviour. No trouble from them–”

“Daltos, I trust you,” Zylus gently interrupts. “If you say that they’ll be good, then they’ll be good.”

“Okay.” Daltos nods. He laughs, softly. “Hey, we’re really doing this.”

“Yes, we are.” Zylus closes the magazine, staring right into his eyes. “Are you doing this because you want to?”

“Yes, I am.” Daltos pretends to look affronted. “I wouldn’t be doing this otherwise!”

“I’m just making sure.” Zylus keeps scrutinizing his expression. “I don’t want to force you into anything that you’re not comfortable with.”

“I’m okay with getting married to you,” Daltos slowly says.

“You mentioned that you nearly married Ravs. What’s he like?”

Daltos looks up at the ceiling, staring past the light. He stays silent for thirty seconds before wistfully answering, “Ravs is an  _ experience _ , and I’m not talking about my ex with you.” He grips Zylus’ hand. “Stop trying to compare yourself to him. You two are different.”

“I know,” Zylus mumbles. 

\--

The wedding takes place on Hecatoncheires.  _ The Blackrock _ stays in atmosphere, anchored in a designated zone. Everyone takes shuttles to the wedding venue. Zylus, Daltos and their retinue of chosen people have priority, arriving two days early. 

Neither of them are particularly religious, so it’s a fairly straightforward ceremony. Zylus doesn’t think of banditry as its own religion, though Daltos still practices some of the superstitions; he’d joked about knocking on wood warding off bad luck, while knocking on an occupied portable toilet meant getting lucky.

Zylina didn’t bother with make-up. She’d worn her combat medic’s outfit. In Zylus’ family, his mother’s side used to marry in uniform since they were so heavily involved in Dahl’s conflicts that marrying on the battlefield’s practically a family tradition.

She peeks into the room Zylus is in. She’s carrying his dad’s photo in one arm. A tiny bow tie’s attached to the frame.

“How are you feeling?” She closes the door behind her, offering him a reassuring smile.

“A little nervous,” Zylus admits, comforted by her presence. His stomach is a helpful mix of nervousness, anticipation and excitement. He hasn’t even changed into his suit.

In the end, Strife flung three sets of black suits at the two, culled from months of careful, painstaking research and collected feedback. Since the frigate’s on the move so much, all three suits had to be specially delivered so that Parvis could tailor the ones Zylus and Daltos ended up picking. The rejected ones got shipped back.

“It’s okay to be nervous. I think you’d be silly to not be.” Zylina puts down the photo of his dad, assembling the suit from its protective layers. She spreads it on the bed. “All the guests are still arriving, so you still have some time to yourself.”

“Mom, I’m not running away,” Zylus says.

“Of course not. The windows are barred, so how could you possibly throw yourself through them?” Zylina eyes him. “If you need me to, I can object to the wedding.”

“That’s not necessary!” Zylus musters up a smile that’s not nervous. “Besides, Daltos and I want this.”

“I want you to be happy.” Zylina hugs him. “With or without him.”

“I know, I know.” Zylus hugs her back. She only reaches his shoulders but the strength of her hugs are unmatched. He’s biased, though. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” She picks up his dad’s photo, sighing wistfully. “He’d be happy for you.” Zylus merely nods and waits until his mother’s left the room before he gets changed.

A few other people also drop by to check in on him; he’s not sure who told them all to. Maybe they’re all concerned that he’ll ditch and hide. 

Rythian, Ravs and Teep bicker about finding Zylus a better tie; Ravs believes that Zylus should don a kilt. Rythian and Teep disagree. Zylus eventually has to gently interrupt and tell them that they’ll miss getting the best seats if they don’t hurry. Smirking, Rythian teleports out of the room, leaving Teep and Ravs to race one another.

BebopVox carefully adjusts Zylus’ tie, checking that the knot is properly tied. They hug him. Zylus rests his head against their shoulder. No words are needed.

Minty and Hollie bring him a glass of water. He appreciates it, and for their company while he waits for things to get underway. Minty wishes that she’d kept her badge to oversee the ceremony. Zylus reassures her that it’ll be okay. Hollie checks Zylus’ vitals to make sure that he’s not going to pass out at the altar. 

While touched, Zylus is a little bit annoyed that people apparently think that he’s fragile when it comes to getting married. They both leave when it’s almost time.

Arsenal is the last person to drop by. Trailing behind him, his two kraggons are wearing bow ties on their collars. The two kraggons have grown larger and more intimidating. The two still retain their playful and mischievous personalities though, obedient to only Arsenal. Dick and Arden stay put by the door, panting lightly.

“All set?” Arsenal leans on a table. He notices how Zylus immediately conceals how wary he suddenly is. “Chill, I’m not here to troll you.”

Zylus nods. “Yeah, I’m set.”

“Man, I was gonna talk to you about some sappy bullshit and quote some married life stuff at you, but you’re probably sick of that since people already dropped by.” Arsenal examines his fingernails. “So I’ll just wait here with you and make sure you don't ditch my man at the altar.”

“Thank you.” Zylus would ask about how Daltos is faring but he’s sure Daltos is managing just fine.

\--

Renting a hotel near the wedding venue was wise. Zylus and Daltos run through rehearsal one last time with everyone involved with the walk up the aisle, check in with Sherlock and Strife, plus a million other things to make sure that the day doesn’t become a shitshow to remember years later. They’ve got only one shot at this and they both want to make it count.

Daltos secretly sets his alarm for far too early. Zylus doesn’t even stir when Daltos switches off the alarm. It’s cold, fog filling the window. He runs an affectionate hand through Zylus’ tousled hair. Zylus sleepily sighs, content, snuggling deeper into the warm haven of the sheets. He tucks in a pillow by Zylus’ outstretched hand. Zylus accepts it, automatically dragging it to his chest, burying his face into it. 

Gone are the days of sleeping alone. Neither of them sleep well anymore without a weight close by.

He changes clothes to a jogging outfit, leaving the hotel.

Left with his thoughts as his only companion, he examines them as they come into being. Is he getting married to Zylus because he knows how important it is to him? Or is he doing it because he’s scared of being all alone again? Or is it because he’s so lonely that he’ll accept literally anyone, even Zylus, becoming a permanent part of his life?

He doesn’t have any answers to these questions, but he already knows that. He rests in a park, leaning against a tree to catch his breath before heading back.

\--

This is the second time Zylus is meeting Daltos’ parents. They’re seated in one of the long chairs near the altar. Daltos’ parents both share their son’s features, Daltos not particularly taking after one parent. His sister waves from a row with her child (Daltos is an uncle now, something he didn’t learn until he visited after leaving Pandora).

Daltos’ bandits pay their respects by keeping the hooting and shouting to a minimum, as the music starts. Zylus doesn’t remember if he picked the music or let Sherlock take over.

Zylina dabs at her face with a handkerchief, doing her best to keep herself together. Zylus’ handpicked family pat her arm, and his aunts, uncles and cousins are behaving. 

Zylus doesn’t have time to linger, focusing on reaching the altar without tripping or fainting. There’s more people than he expected attending, forming a series of rings around the circular altar.

Daltos is waiting at the altar. Zylus’ heart skips a beat or two when he catches sight of him. He looks surprised to see that Zylus is approaching. Arsenal leads Zylus along the red carpet, step by step. 

A few people are crying. Arsenal’s one of them, biting his lip but his eyes are watering. Both kraggons have since stolen to Minty’s side, patiently watching.

Zylus reaches the altar without incident. He stands in front of Daltos. Daltos watches him with a concerned expression, but Zylus gives him a little nod. Satisfied, Daltos relaxes.

He looks handsome as always but today is special. Zylus drinks in the sight of that black suit, the short-cropped hair with its scattering of salt and pepper, and the slightly anxious way he holds himself. 

Zylus agonized over his vows, knowing that every word matters. He can’t say anything wrong and no matter how dense Daltos is, he’s not stupid about words, especially those coming from Zylus.

“Daltos, I’ve loved you since Pandora. Before Pandora as well, actually. I wanted to tell you the truth about my feelings but it was never the right time or place.

Our relationship back then wasn’t perfect, or all sunshine or rainbows, but looking back on it, I wouldn’t want to change anything. Well, except for the part where you ripped that piece of metal out of my head, or nearly died in my arms, but I’ve since forgiven you for that.

Please, forgive yourself. This is the present. Things are different. We can’t change the past, but together, we can face the future. I’m spending mine with you because I want to, from the bottom of my heart. I’m happy when I’m with you, and I want you to be happy too.

Thank you for waiting. I love you.”

For a few seconds, there’s the sound of people blowing their noses, sobbing in happiness, or staying silent as Zylus’ sincere, heartfelt words sink in. Arsenal bursts into tears, burying his face into his hands. Minty and Hollie pat his back, grinning like proud loons.

The whole room inhales to see how Daltos responds.

“K,” Daltos simply says. Pink in the cheeks, Zylus and all their guests deadeye him, wondering if he’s about to ruin everything by saying something idiotic. “Wait, no, that’s not my vow,” He hastily says. “Um. I’ll keep this short.” He takes a deep breath. “It’s taken us more than ten years to get to this point. Yeah, yeah, I know it took us a fair while, but we finally got around to it.” This earns relieved laughter. “In many ways, Zylus is still the twink that he was back when I first met him.” Even more laughter ensues. Zylus’ face turns pinker. “It took him over six months to pick up the courage to ask me out. Before that, he attempted to woo me. He completely failed, but that’s because I’m an oblivious idiot. I still am. I don’t completely know or understand why he wants to spend the rest of his life stuck with me.” He turns to Zylus. “Believe it or not, Zylus, you genuinely make  _ me _ happy, so I know that I want to spend the rest of my life with you. So thank you, Zylus, for choosing me.” Daltos pauses. He smirks. “Also, no takesies backsies.”

Zylus bursts out laughing, wiping overjoyed tears from his face with the back of his hand. He reaches for Daltos as Daltos reaches for him to slip rings onto each other’s fingers. They share a brief kiss.

Ravs the rooster crows from Zoeya’s lap as she cheers, Saberial flinging confetti from a bucket. Arsenal sobs, cheering as loud as he can. Minty hugs him around the shoulders. The afterparty is underway, starting with Daltos leading Zylus to the middle of the floor to dance.

They rehearsed after their shifts. Nanosounds had to teach them both how to waltz. Zylus loved slow dancing with Daltos in a deserted cargo bay, concentration split between watching Daltos focus on each step and not stepping on his feet.

Arsenal had warned Zylus in advance that Daltos is sticking to bandit tradition: after the wedding, it’s drinks and dancing (both often intertwining, like some sort of demented, drunken seesaw).

He’s truly happy as he and Daltos collapse onto chairs to watch everyone else at the party, now that they’ve done their bit in getting the event underway. Zylus picked a table on the side. Daltos orders two glasses of water from a waiter.

The two watch as Minty cuts in to dance with Ravs, allowing Rythian to rest. Rythian ducks through the main door, vanishing outside with a blush that’s not alcohol induced.

Teep pulls over a chair, sitting next to the two. Teep’s wearing a bowtie clipped to their jacket. Otherwise, they’re dressed like they usually are.

They lean in, signing, “I’ve got a mission for you.”

“Me?” Zylus points to himself.

“I actually meant the both of you,” Teep signs. They flash the number ‘two’ via their goggles at him. “This is a joint mission.”

“What’s this about?”

“You’re going to find a Vault.” Teep slides a thin envelope across to Zylus. “And you two just happen to have the perfect cover story.”

“What story?”

“You’re newlyweds on a honeymoon.” Teep spreads both hands out in an amused gesture.

“Oh,” is all Zylus can say. Daltos merely looks surprised but nods in acceptance.

\--

Zylus and Daltos equip themselves for the ‘honeymoon’ that awaits them on one of Triton’s icy moons. Terraforming efforts by Vladof have left the moon encased in a forested layer. As Triton entered its next ice age, people moved to the slightly less frigid moons to wait it out. One of Rythian’s translations points to a potential artifact hidden on said moons.

During the shuttle ride, Zylus rechecks that his inventory is stacked with vitals and items. His wedding ring is light on his finger, barely noticeable. He sneaks a peek at Daltos to see if he’s wearing his; Daltos is, before he tugs on a pair of snow gloves, flexing his wrists to check that the seals are properly in place. He pops snow goggles on his forehead. He hands a set to Zylus, and a spare. Zylus accepts both, tucking one into his inventory and the other on his head.

Arsenal is bringing the shuttle into atmosphere. Arden and Dick are underfoot, wanting last minute bouts of attention. With a low whistle, Arsenal calls the kraggons off. The kraggons slink to his side, waiting obediently by his chair, panting and huffing.

Daltos and Zylus glance at each other, preparing to disembark by the door. The backpacks both are carrying are purely for appearance, but they’re also extra supplies, if they happen to get searched. Weapons are permitted so long as they’re kept out of sight and aren’t fired on premises.

When the shuttle breaches the clouds, a gust of wind crashes into the shuttle. Zylus and Daltos slam into the door, Zylus gasping in pain as his leg and elbow smash into the metal. Daltos grunts, grabbing the safety handholds. The kraggons are flung onto the luggage racks, barking madly. 

“I got it, everything’s under control, no need to panic!” Arsenal shouts, wrenching the shuttle back into position.

“Get us down to the moon as soon as you can and then head off!” Daltos orders, his hand on the door. He grabs. Zylus by the shoulder. “Zylus, are you okay?”

“I’m fine!” Zylus shakes his numbing arm, leaning on the wall. He clips a safety line to him and Daltos.

The shuttle shakes and shutters as the winds keeps trying to throw it around like a hapless toy boat stuck in floodwaters. Arsenal’s chatter is absent, lost as he concentrates. Trottimus did warn that Triton and its moons boasted an obnoxious level of wind.

The shuttle thunks as it reaches the landing pad. Daltos yanks his hood up. The open door lets in a furious blast of snow and wind. The kraggons retreat to Arsenal, hackles raised and intent on defending him against this invisible threat.

“Good luck!” Arsenal calls over the combined racket.

Daltos and Zylus duck into the blizzard with their backpacks. Behind them, the shuttle’s door seals and it takes off, braving the winds to return to the frigate. Not watching, the two slog through the snow, making their way to the spaceport, a barely visible silhouette that lies several hundred metres ahead. The safety line slackens as Zylus keeps up with Daltos. It’d be bad if he lost sight of him not even ten minutes into the mission.

The spaceport doors let the two in. Stumbling at the sudden lack of wind, the two pull their goggles and hoods down. There’s three people at max on duty in the spaceport.

“Howdy, what kind of business brings you folks here to the lovely T-3?” The receptionist sleepily yawns and slips their magazine under the counter to watch the two shake and stamp snow off their clothes and boots.

“T-3?” Zylus glances at the conveniently placed map of Triton and its accessory moons. “Oh! Triton Three.”

“Yep,” The receptionist says, grinning lopsidedly. “You’re tourists?” They guess. “We don’t usually get tourists at this time of the year.”

“Honeymooners,” Daltos corrects. “Some friends of ours booked it a couple of weeks ago.” He gives Zylus a sly sort of smile. “Last minute wedding gift.”

“Congrats! Either you got the worst friends or the best enemies, since the wind’s awful at the moment.” The still grinning receptionist leans on the counter. “Anyway, where’re you headed? I’ll log you in.”

Daltos and Zylus hand over their passes. The receptionist waves them through the system without looking too closely at their passes. Clearly it’s a quiet time.

“We’re headed over the mountains towards the winter resorts.” Daltos gives up the information, deliberately keeping it vague. “Our friends wanted to keep surprising us with whatever they booked.”

“Well, here’s one. The next snow skipper’ll be here tomorrow. We’re all waiting for the winds to blow over, so help yourselves to a room.” The receptionist gestures to a building attached via a long, transparent tunnel. Through it, the glass is iced over, lending a foggy impression of the blizzard. “Food and water’s free, we’re pretty prepared if the blizzard keeps going.”

Zylus doesn’t want to ask about a refund in spite of being tempted to. Daltos leads him down the hallway. He picks one of the unoccupied rooms. The room is tidy, with a single bed. Daltos undresses out of his winter gear, climbing into bed.

Puzzled, Zylus watches him so do. Daltos pats the bed beside him. “Come on, we might as well try to get some sleep.”

“Oh, okay.” Zylus copies him, crawling in. It’s not quite their first night of sharing a bed after being married. Nothing’s changed at all. Except. Daltos pulls him closer, letting Zylus hang onto him.

Sleep is easy. Waking is, too. Zylus wakes first, briefly poking around the spaceport for the aforementioned food and water. He finds coffee and brings back breakfast, plus two mugs of the stuff.

Daltos is sitting up in bed, yawning and looking far too sleepy eyed to move. Zylus delivers him breakfast in bed, getting an equally sleepy ‘thanks’ in response. 

The snow skipper arrives. It’s a tank on treads, sturdy and rugged. Zylus has a fantastic time watching it race over the snow banks and dodging trees while Daltos works his way through another book.

The skipper drops them off at the resort, huffing off back down the mountain to its next location. Zylus and Daltos turn around. The resort is a fortress, spreading over an entire estate, each linked by the same tunnels as the spaceport’s. 

Zylus signs in. He also takes a set of pre-filled maps, slipping copies into his HUD for later. They could be adventurous but Zylus knows to take whatever resources he can get, even if he doesn’t quite trust them yet. The receptionist here offers congratulations on the honeymoon, blessing the two. It’s weird to see Daltos acknowledge their relationship so openly, after having danced around it for years. It’s not a bad kind of weird though.

Their room is themed after a cabin, with wooden log walls and floors. There’s even a fireplace to burn proper logs in. Zylus feeds the fire as Daltos explores the rooms. Daltos also sweeps for bugs; he finds none. He drops the backpacks besides the bed.

They’re technically supposed to be on vacation so they have to try not to contact the other Vault Hunters, beyond making it look like they’re sending ridiculous photos. 

“So, Zylus, what do you want to do?” Daltos picked up the itinerary of all the resort’s activities. He doesn’t look that enthused at learning how to slow dance, or at taking survival classes.

“We could stay in here,” Zylus mumbles. “We don’t have to go anywhere, you know.”

“We’re finally on vacation and you want to stay inside?” Daltos shakes his head, grinning. “Come on, let’s go outside and check out these slopes.”

Zylus pretends to put up resistance, but caves. He and Datlos rent skiis and take a few classes on learning how to use them. It’s fun; neither of them are amazing at it, which just makes it a competition to see who can cover the most distance without falling flat on their face, tripping or bungling it.

By the end of it, Zylus has laughed more than he has in the time that Daltos was away. He looks at Daltos, and realises that Daltos is in fact, happy.

“Pay attention!” Zylus starts to Daltos zooming past him, laughing like a maniac. He streaks down the beginner’s slope after him, trying to catch up.

He crashes into a snowbank, forgetting to turn. Daltos picks his way over, holding a hand out to Zylus. Zylus lets himself get helped up. Daltos pats him down and hands him his needled sticks. “Come on, we still got a few k’s to go. Race you?”

Zylus nods, glad that his scarf is hiding his face. He’s not sure how to explain to Daltos that he’s glad to have him in his life.

They haven’t actually ‘slept’ together since a few months before the wedding. Trying to organise everything past a certain point meant forgoing other activities.

He keeps dropping hints. Daltos doesn’t pick up on them, which frustrates Zylus further.

He ends up cornering Daltos one day, pressing him against the bed until his knees hit it and he goes down. Zylus pushes him back further, a hand on his chest. 

“Oh. You could have just said so,” Daltos says, smirking. Zylus silences him after that, with the kind of kiss that makes him blush because he hadn’t thought he’d be capable of being that aggressive.

“Was I too loud?” Zylus anxiously asks him later.

There’s a contemplative beat. “No,” Daltos says.

“Did you just pause?” Zylus accuses.

“No I didn’t, and besides, we can test it,” Daltos says, reaching for his hand. Instead of taking his hand, Zylus edges away from him to dive into his inventory. “What’re you doing?” He sounds confused, no longer sleepy.

“Writing down today’s date since you never want more sex,” Zylus explains, grinning from ear to ear.

“Why are you so mean?” Acting shocked, Daltos playfully shoves him, bumping their shoulders briefly.

“My, how the turned have tables,” Zylus says, giggling.

Daltos leans over his side of the bed. He rummages with one hand, finding his digistruct modules he left with his jacket. He pulls out a single item: the tiniest, most adorable fire extinguisher that Zylus has ever seen. He’s marveling at it, making the mistake of scooting closer to Daltos to peer at it, completely fascinated.

It’s about the size of his hand, from the top of his middle finger to his wrist. Daltos aims and squeezes the black handle. Foam gushes out of the nozzle right at Zylus. He splutters, flinging his arms up over his face to divert the worst of it. It splatters onto the bed, clinging to his hair and skin. 

“Daltos,  _ why _ do you have one?” Zylus’ hysterical laughter fills the room.

“Let’s not discuss the semantics,” Daltos lazily responds, like using a fire extinguisher on one’s spouse is a perfectly normal marital activity.

“It’s tiny, like your libido!” Zylus shoots back. He gets another faceful of foam for that. Laughing, he retreats to the bathroom to clean up. Daltos drops the half drained fire extinguisher into his inventory. He now has to contend with a bed full of white spunk, a missing spouse, and nothing to do but wait.

Well, at least this way, Zylus won’t steal the sheets if he knows what’s good for him.

\--

The two rent a skipper after dawn. They’ve both sent out a borrowed set of Trottimus’ surveyors to scout the terrain when the wind isn’t so hellish. The surveyors have reported that there’s a particularly promising ravine to the northwest. Daltos and Zylus set their course; Daltos drives, letting Zylus guide him. They’re going on the pretense of heading off to a lover’s cabin, secluded in a patch of thick woodland.

He’s never camped in a forest before. Daltos has, but only by virtue of going when he was a kid. The skipper’s cabin is warm, making him consider removing his jacket. The vehicle handles well, turning remarkably smooth for something on treads.

The cabin is the closest thing to a base that they have. Daltos gets to work on checking that it’s in suitable condition while Zylus parks the skipper within running distance. They don’t know if it’s just them in these parts. Nobody appears to be following them.

Daltos proclaims the cabin to be in decent shape. They move minimal supplies in. It’s a snowless day, so Zylus dusts and airs out the cabin while Daltos cleans the bathroom and kitchen. The heat field keeps the warmth trapped inside. Teep’s heating modules recharge on the spacious bed.

A snowstorm starts up on the fifth day, trapping Daltos and Zylus inside for the rest of the week. They put that time to good use, but poring over the map can only be done so many times before it gets boring. There’s not exactly a loss for how to spend their time when cooped up together. Besides, they’re used to it.

Two weeks in, Zylus and Daltos take the skipper further, towards the mountains. They have more than half of the fuel left after several brief excursions to prod at the landscape.

Daltos thinks it might be located in a blocked off cave somewhere, which got shifted thanks to the moon’s tectonic plates moving about. Zylus reckons that it’s above ground level; the Vault should have been pushed up from that same movement.

They’ve bickered about it constantly. Neither are inclined to give in and concede that the other person has a good point. Zylus thinks that it’s a familiar form of easing tensions without throwing actual punches.

The two leave the skipper parked away from the glacier’s edges. Nobody’s marked this glacier as off-limits. Daltos and Zylus clip a safety line between the two of them. After a round of rock, paper, scissors, Daltos wins the front position. Zylus trails behind him, mindful of where he’s putting his feet.

The hood over his head doesn’t muffle the crunch of snow underfoot. Daltos is using a pole to scout out the glacier beneath and ahead of him, poking the ground every so often for loose snow hiding deathtraps.

It’s still out here. Not even trees placed roots this far beyond the mountains. Rythian didn’t say anything about the Vaults leeching life from around them. Zylus shivers in spite of knowing otherwise. Daltos moves forward after gingerly testing another patch of ground. He motions to Zylus as the snow splits beneath his feet.

“Daltos!” Zylus lunges forward, remembering at the last second that he’s the lifeline. He digs his heels in, using his own pole to keep himself anchored as Daltos disappears downwards.

He hears cursing as the line straightens. Zylus scoots back, the rope catching on his hips, digging into his belt and waist. Terrified that Daltos is hurt, he stays still, not daring to move.

“Zylus? You there?” Daltos calls. “Zylus!”

“I’m here!” Zylus calls back, relieved that he’s alive. “Are you hurt?”

“Just banged myself,” Daltos reports.

Bit by bit, Zylus is slipping towards the hole Daltos is in. He plants his boots into the snow. The snow’s slippery. He’s going to reach it eventually. All Zylus can do is delay it. “Hold on! I’ll pull you out of there!”

“Go back for help!”

“No! I’m not leaving you!”

“I’m cutting myself free. Use the beacon to get Arsenal down here with some backup.”

“No, don’t–“ Zylus lunges for the end of the line as the weight on the other end slips free. He’s left holding a dead end, staring at it in shock.

He ties said end to his belt. He extracts the distress beacon from his inventory. Activating it with gloves on is a minor hassle but it’s soon transmitting. Zylus plants it as deep as it can go into the snow so the wind doesn’t dislodge it.

Sucking in a breath, he slips into the hole after Daltos. It’s a sharp drop, with no room or places for him to slow his fall. The walls are too smooth for him to grab or dig his pole into so Zylus is forced to rely on suffering a fair amount of bruising to reach the bottom.

He hits water. Coughing and spluttering, Zylus tries to find his feet. Someone grabs him, hauling him up. Daltos has pulled his goggles off. He shoves Zylus against the wall. “I told you to leave me and get help!”

“I wasn’t going to leave you again!” Zylus angrily retorts. “I left the beacon up there. They’ll find it.”

“At least you actually thought of that before you jumped down here with me.” Daltos is leaning against the wall as well. Water sloshes around his ankles. A glowstick he’s jammed into a shallow crevice provides a faint bit of light. “But great! What do we do until they get here?” He sarcastically asks.

Zylus didn’t think that far ahead. He stays silent. The beacon’s life lasts for about two months, but they definitely don’t have that many supplies to hold out that long. Maybe, if they kept their intake to a minimal.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m actually glad you didn’t leave me.” Daltos scrubs at his face.

He paces the chamber they’re trapped in. It’s about the size of a small cave, shaped like a crudely carved sphere. The water is an emerald blue colour. Zylus’ shield is keeping him protected from the cold. The battery’s wearing down by the hour, though.

“We could explore.” Zylus takes the glow stick, waving it at the corners. The water’s deeper at one end, darkening significantly. “There’s no exit I can see, but there’s probably something beneath the water.”

Daltos watches him wearily. He pulls out two Oz kits, fastening one to his shoulder. Zylus takes the other. He clips the light to his belt and prepares to dive. He leads; Daltos stays close to him.

He uses a simple breaststroke to propel himself forward, his radar filling in the path ahead of him. At last, the sloping tunnel pushes him and Daltos up. Daltos and Zylus emerge, gasping. Their Oz kits refill with what limited oxygen remains in the airspace.

There’s a door, and Zylus stares at it before looking at Daltos. Daltos looks back at him. Faced with the prospect of going back the way they came or exploring, Zylus and Daltos choose the latter. Both of them barely have to push against the door before it’s open. 

Rythian mentioned that this Vault isn’t lethal. It’s actually a cache. What it contains could be beyond their wildest dreams, or their worst nightmares. Zylus and Daltos draw their weapons, mindful of any Guardians that might be lurking. Nothing takes offense to their entry.

Glad that they’re not dying instantly, Zylus laughs. The sound surprises Daltos. He swings his gun around, aiming at Zylus. He sighs. “What’s so funny?”

“We were both wrong. The Vault’s underwater.” Zylus giggles.

When they’re finally rescued by Teep and Hat Corp., they take each other’s hands, not letting go until they’re back on the frigate.

This Vault is a pathway into different times, according to Rythian. With its unpredictable inclinations for throwing timelines into chaos and irreversibly damaging history in the wrong hands, the Eridians left it to rot in a place that should have been inaccessible.

Zylus and Daltos undid all that with their discovery. Rythian’s skill at deciphering the instructions to control the Vault dials its danger level, but not by much. Thus, Rythian erects an Eridian barrier that bans everyone without an Eternal mutation from entering.

That’s how it should have went in theory, until during an exploration, Zylus and Daltos have an argument, and Daltos falls into it, but that’s another story for another time.

\--

\- / / NOW PLAYING ECHO LOG. / / -

Daltos: (camera view bobs until it’s resting on the desk to face him) Okay, so listen. Confession time: I used to do weekly yoga with Arsenal. It started out as a game of chicken, but we both found out that it was making us less stressed. So we kept doing it, in secret. Now, the problem is this. Zylus’ mom is the health officer on this frigate. She thought it’d be a good idea to introduce yoga and jazzercise.

Zylus dragged me along so that she wouldn’t feel sad if nobody turned up, but look, almost everyone showed up. She’s the kind of person who gives out free lollipops with her shots, so she’s really popular.

Anyway, so I had to go. (Daltos his head in his hands, starting to laugh) I had to fucking pretend I didn’t know shit about yoga, because even Zylus doesn’t know I used to do it!

I fooled him for about five weeks! But then, Arsenal perfected his new leg calibrations and you bet that he wasn’t going to sit, watch and shoot me knowing grins anymore. 

So the first thing he does in the next session is run over to me and Zylus, nudge me, and I swear, I would have given anything to have him not say the next few words, but you know what he says?

‘Just like we used to!’ and I kid you not, Zylus immediately lost his shit, so Ravs lost his shit too, and now everyone knows. 

(Daltos moves camera slightly above his shoulder to show Zylus cracking up in bed) He hasn’t stopped laughing at me since. (He shakes his head but is smiling)

Zylus: (wiping tears away) You hid it because you were embarrassed! That’s so cute though? No wonder why I thought it was weird you caught onto it so quickly?

Daltos: I’ve also banned Arsenal from coming anywhere within ten feet of me.

Zylus: (calming down) it’s okay, because you’re still coming to the weekly sessions, right?

Daltos: (offended) I’m three stamps away from getting a new shirt, so of course I’m going!

Zylus: I love this man so much.

\- / / NOW ENDING ECHO LOG. / / -

\--

\- / / NOW PLAYING ECHO LOG. / / -

Zylus: So, how many people did you end up dating, and how did you...when...never mind, you don’t have to answer the second one.

Daltos: I gave mine to a dude five weeks after I turned eighteen! You?

Zylus: OKAY. My first boyfriend, who wasn’t you, stop grinning, took me out on five date before we did it in his bunk...and then it turns out he was cheating on me with his roommate.

Daltos: Want another drink?

Zylus: I’m fine. It’s okay, because my mom found out, and told his mom, and he got lambblasted by her in the mess hall in front of everyone. You’re my fourth relationship, by the way.

Daltos: You’re my sixty-ninth sexcapade, and my ninth relationship, if you count all the ones that lasted for only a couple months, and the speed dating.

Zylus: Are you joking?

Daltos: Maybe.

Zylus: How do you not have space herpes? You harlot?

Daltos: …

Zylus: DON’T HOLD YOUR FINGERS UP TO YOUR MOUTH IN A ‘V’ SHAPE AT ME!

Daltos: You calling me a thot?

Zylus: No, harlot!

Daltos: You overrated little twink!

Zylus: Useless bi!

Daltos: Slutty son!

Zylus: (giggling helplessly) What are we doing?

Daltos: (crinkling sound of chip bag opening, followed by the squeaking of a dip jar opening, then further crinkling) I don’t know.

Zylus: What are you doing?

\- / / NOW FAST FORWARDING ECHO LOG. / / -

Zylus: Go away! (view shows him curled up in bed, sheets pulled up over his head so only the top of his hair is visible)

Daltos: (view retreats to face him, and he shakes his head, grinning) The reason why he’s upset is because I asked him if he wanted a chippy from the dippy bag. (swings camera to show off an open bag of corn chips filled with dip) That’s so I don’t have to wash up later!

\- / / NOW ENDING ECHO LOG. / / -


	7. part seven.

Arsenal measures the ‘naked to the eye’ rings within the rocks that fall off his kraggons’ backs. There’s no standard way to measure their age, aside from size, and Arsenal prefers a much more precise method. He cracks the rocks open with a chisel, borrowing one of Lalnable’s microscopes to count the rings for his kraggon diary. It’s like counting tree rings, and he always credits Zoeya with the discovery. All and any updates go to her, of course.

So far, his kraggons are well past puppy age and right into adulthood. They’re larger than Boner ever was, fed a steady diet of synthetic lava, scraps, junk and leftovers. They easily fit into the back of a technical, but if they got any larger, he’d need a trailer to go anywhere with them. Being disabled (hell yeah, prosthetic leg, go) and with them officially registered as his assistance animals, he has no problems getting help whenever he heads planetside.

Dick and Arden are fully trained, possessing an encyclopedic knowledge of commands designed to help Arsenal in life.

They never forget that he’s in charge, treating him like a parent, fond, devoted and affectionate in all their dealings. Like dogs, except without the poop and downside of the wet fur smell.

He’d been to Elpis briefly, to grab photos of what the eldest kraggons looked like for reference, if Dick and Arden ever reached that point. The oldest kraggons aren’t any older than Elpis, but some dated back to ‘the Crackening’, when Elpis experienced its first moonshakes (like earthquakes, except it’s well, on the moon).

As a species, kraggons aren’t that old compared to others within the galaxies, but nobody’s domesticated them before.

Arsenal’s proud to call himself the first known domesticator. He’s less proud when someone (probably Hawker, the idiot) asks what’s going to do if his kraggons outlive him.

It sends Arsenal into a mental tailspin; there’s Zoeya, but she runs a farm, and friendly kraggons didn’t exactly get along with flighty chickens. Ravs the rooster doesn’t count, being the cunning mastermind that he is in holding Zoeya and Saberial’s affections. 

Lomadia would probably take them in, but she’s a wanderer at heart, and the kraggons prefer the comfort of a secure nest to return to. They don’t mind change, but Arsenal likes to think that they take after him, preferring routine. Even if he likes causing chaos, he also appreciates quiet and peace.

Ravs follows Rythian no matter what, and he already has his hands full with quails and fancy pigeons, plus Junior. Teep is not a pet person, and their murderous, trolly personality would rub off the kraggons too well. Nilesy already has an army of cats.

Zylus and Daltos, maybe, except Zylus is terrified of the kraggons, no matter how fond Daltos is of them. Minty and Hollie already told him that they’re willing, but if they’re too, outlived by the kraggons, then what’s a guy to do?

The list of people who can take in the kraggons after Arsenal’s death dwindles as the week passes.

Rythian maintains a confidential list of Vaults he shares with the senior Vault Hunters, and  _ The Blackrock’s _ captains so that they know what to do in the event of an emergency.

There’s no Queen left to inflict him with the same immortality as Teep and Rythian, and Arsenal refuses to ask Lalnable or them about the secrets to their ‘living forever’ deal. That’s just plain insensitive.

If there’s a Vault that can hold the knowledge of everything ever, a Vault that acts as a time travel device, a Vault that doubles as a prison, then there has to be a Vault that bestows immortality.

Arsenal secretly checks the list with every Vault discovery, biding his time. Little does he know that there are others with the same idea as him. He believes that he’s the only willing to do something so stupid in the first place.

\--

\- / / NOW PLAYING ECHO LOG. / / -

Daltos: I know an actual embodiment of chaotic evil who is perfect for this mission.

Rythian: who?

Daltos: Arsenal, get up here.

Arsenal: Not until you say the thing!

Daltos: no.

Arsenal: yes!

Daltos: Rythian's here.

Arsenal: Say it!

Daltos: FINE. Daddy needs you. ARE YOU FUCKING HAPPY NOW?

Arsenal: I sure am, daddykins!

Rythian: I can see that’s why you don’t talk to him much over ECHO.

Daltos: Help me, my best friend is trying to kill me from lack of dignity.

Zylus: It’s okay, everyone respects you for doing yoga before it got popular.

Daltos: You’re all blocked.

\- / / NOW ENDING ECHO LOG. / / -

\--

Rythian unlocks the Vault’s location after two solid months of backbreaking deciphering. It’s one of their biggest discoveries, and it has to stay secret. Fine by Arsenal.

The Vault itself is plain in comparison to the grandeur of previous Vaults. Its looks disguise the blessing and curse within it. Once Rythian locks it down, there’s no way that anybody but him and Teep can step inside of it. 

Nobody suspects once his place in the mission is guaranteed. He leaves his kraggons behind. He never takes them on the riskier missions like these, no matter how well-behaved they are. He also doesn’t want them to see how disappointed they are if he fails, or ends up dying.

Vault missions have briefings by Rythian beforehand, so that everyone understands what kind of threat the Vaults pose, and what might be within them. Not all Vaults contain galaxy level threats like the Queen, or previously noted ones, but the Guardians inside may not recognize Rythian as the inheritor of the Queen’s gift. 

Combat always remains a high possibility until the Vault is subdued and deemed clear. Some Vaults had their own ideas about what ‘subdued is’. Any artifacts are kept by Teep in a secret location to avoid theft, corporate espionage, blackmail, war, and all the consequences of power hungry, bloodthirsty or naive idiots.

He doesn’t even tell Minty, Daltos, Lomadia or his friends what’s wrong. They’d probably consider him insane for attempting what history’s tried.

The mission proceeds swimmingly; the Vault puts up no resistance at all. Rythian settles down to map and do more of his work. Ravs lingers to flirt with Rythian, and Arsenal has to stop himself from inviting Ravs for celebratory drinks or risk Ravs outdrinking him (not knowing that Ravs is staying sober tonight for another reason).

The night before they’re due to leave, Arsenal sneaks away from the campsite. They always camp beyond the Vault’s location to test if anything ‘respawns’ (as Panda coined; some of the temperamental Vaults like to spit Guardians, perhaps from spite).

Arsenal keeps a gun on hand as he retraces the map in his HUD. Nothing so much as breathes on his radar either, and all the friendly dots stay in camp. He stashed away raw eridium in his inventory. It’s their only proven catalyst of Vaults since their resident Siren, Nanosounds, has no link to the stuff.

The Vault appears to anticipate his intent. The metal arch is alight with a soft, ethereal purple glow along the markings wrapping around it. Arsenal assumes it’s the eridium that’s causing the effect; most eridium hungry Vaults reacted to Rythian whenever Rythian made a blood offering (which he hates doing; it’s primitive but if they’re short on eridium, it works in a pinch).

He finds the panels with the help of the basic translator program Rythian and Xephos threw together so that people wouldn’t have to keep calling Rythian to ask ‘what’s this’ and so on.

He slides the eridium onto the pedestal. The arch flares purple on the inside, practically inviting him to step in. 

Is he ready?

Arsenal thinks of his kraggons, putting aside all other thoughts of his friends and what consequences this might have. 

He holds his breath. He steps in. The strange light envelopes him, as gentle and embracing as the morning sunlight.

\--

Arsenal was smart to wait until everyone fell asleep. Everyone but Ravs did, and Ravs assumed that Arsenal slipped off to go pee or something. When he didn’t return, Ravs grabbed all his things and followed. He left a message for Rythian, timed so that if he’s not back in fifteen minutes, the alarm in it should wake Rythian.

Ravs plans to be back by then, and have Arsenal with him. If Arsenal’s planning foul deeds, Ravs hopes it’s not backstabbing. He’s been wrong before about trusting people. Ravs quiets his mind as best as he can, reassuring himself that Arsenal is not a sellout or a spy in their midst. Other parts of his mind insist otherwise, and Ravs hates that it brings up valid points.

Arsenal’s marker hasn’t budged from the Vault. Ravs picks up speed, jogging up the slope towards the entrance. Traveling to its heart doesn’t take long.

It’s there that Ravs finds the Vault’s arch dimming to a pale, nearly non-existent glow, and Arsenal standing on the other side of the arch, staring down at his own hands. The strange, pulsing glow suffusing his being peels from him, rejoining the arch. Arsenal doesn’t notice.

The raw eridium consumed sinks into the arch like liquid metal, silent and gone.

Ravs blinks.

Arsenal inspects himself, even peeling up his pant leg to check if his prosthetic leg is still present. It is, and he lets out a quiet, disappointed sigh. He freezes. Of course he does, because he never expected to see Ravs, of all people, standing there. Nor did he ever anticipate Ravs’ expression.

Ravs hurtles across the room. His hands wrap around Arsenal’s neck. He smashes Arsenal against the wall. Arsenal coughs. It’s a pained, wheezing, cut-off sound. Ravs hoists him higher into the air. Arsenal kicks at him, useless and stunned.

His terrified eyes fix on Ravs’ own. His hands fumble on top of Ravs, before dropping when Ravs’ thumbs press into the warm, soft, tanned flesh beneath them, finding the delicate windpipe he could easily crush.

He strangles.

Arsenal closes his eyes, accepting his fate and letting his hands drop to his sides.

Ravs wants to take his time with this, and it’s not like Arsenal is going to die so easily, not if the arch worked successfully.

Life is slowly leaving Arsenal, who isn’t even bothering to fight back. Guilty of his crime, or for sneaking into here without telling anyone, or for betraying all of them? 

Ravs doesn’t care, rage blinding him to the reasons.

Blue lips mouth his name, and— Ravs flings him at the floor.

Arsenal gasps for air, flipping onto his front to dry heave. His loud, noisy breathing is all the sound filling the chamber, echoing and harsh, to the both of them.

Unable to look at Arsenal, Ravs faces the arch. All the light is really gone. It’s a lifeless hunk of Eridian technology again. There’s no guarantee that it’ll ever work again. The Eridians could be thoughtfully cruel like that, just like how Rythian will never cure himself of his burdens and scars.

“I’m sorry,” Arsenal whispers what Ravs didn’t want to hear earlier. He’s on the floor, spread eagled, his voice damaged and soft. Tears leak from his eyes. He’s always been a big, emotional softie. “If I’d known, I’d have let you go first.”

Ravs is almost bowled over by the intensity of guilt assaulting him. He’d nearly murdered Arsenal for taking the initiative, however selfish it ended up being, because nothing’s worse than killing a friend. He’d even hard the nerve to lay hands on him, and he’d come so close to snuffing out Arsenal’s life. No matter how immortal Arsenal is, Ravs doesn’t want to be the cause of his friend’s first death.

Ravs rips his shield off, dumping it into his inventory.

He punches the wall. The first slap of pain cuts through him like Teep’s knife. The second laces into his knuckles, and the third, fourth and fifth turn into sixth and seventh, that stack.

“Stop!” Arsenal wheezes, stumbling to his feet towads Ravs.

The sight and sound of Ravs repeatedly punching the wall like it’s a punching bag is warped by the shiny, red blood gushing from Ravs’ torn knuckles.

“Stop it!” Arsenal lands on one of Ravs’ arms. 

Ravs shrugs him off as easily as raindrops, Arsenal almost slumping onto the ground. He tries again, loathing the repetitive thudding, the crushing sound of Ravs’ heavy breathing that’s backed by the steady plips of blood hitting the floor.

“Ravs, stop punishing yourself!” Arsenal shouts, right into Ravs’ face. Ravs pauses. Tears glisten within those beautiful, brown eyes of his. Arsenal gives himself enough room, yanking down the collar of his shirt. “It’s all gone now!” 

All the massive bruising from Ravs’ punishment is already a part of him. This doesn’t console Ravs. Ravs’ eyes widen. He takes in the skin missing all the black and blue from earlier, and the hideous fingermarks curving around to almost touch each other.

With an anguished howl, Ravs bursts into tears. Arsenal isn’t heartless as to reel back and gape at him. He’s known Ravs for over ten years. In all those ten years, Ravs has never cried (unless it’s from cutting onions, laughter or massive pain), not even after a bad breakup.

Tears and blood make for a messy mix. Shushing Ravs, Arsenal fishes out his familiar owl patterned hankie, using it to mop up Ravs’ salty tears. Ravs is so vulnerable right now. He won’t stop either, no matter how much Arsenal says that it’s fine.

Flustered and stumped for how to deal with this, Arsenal tucks the damp hankie into his belt. He firmly grabs a hold of Ravs’ face. He sees Ravs’ visibly surprise, squashes the ‘bad idea’ alarm going off in his brain, and kisses Ravs.

Ravs shuts up.

It’s a nostalgic callback to old times, a real whack to the chest and head, but Arsenal is also crossing a line into the land of no return. Arsenal doesn’t need it to last forever, and he’s a little guilty for enjoying it while he can. He pulls back. There may have been some tongue in there, whoops. It worked though. Ravs is silent, but definitely confused.

“Made you stop crying,” Arsenal explains, grinning sheepishly.

“Oh, if only I’d thought of that first,” Ravs sighs, rubbing at his face with the part of his hand that’s not shredded into fleshy ribbons.

“Look, if anybody’s gotta blame someone, blame me.” Arsenal shakes his head. He can’t even bring himself to hate Ravs for reacting that way. He would too, if he found someone doing the exact same thing. “If you want to know why I did it, I did it for my kraggons, and I’m not gonna apologize for that.”

“You did it for your kraggons?” Ravs doesn’t sound incredulous or hateful. He just sounds contemplative, and so very tired.

“Nobody can look after these two troublemakers, and I think kraggons are going to live longer than I will, being made of sentient rocks and all.” Arsenal can’t keep his voice level. It wobbles around the ‘live longer’ part. “I’m really sorry about taking the arch from you, though. If I’d known you wanted it too, I’d let you go first. You can punch me, if you’d like.”

“Afraid I can’t really do that.” Ravs grimaces, flexing one of his busted hands. He leans in closer to Arsenal. “I’m out of hands.”

“You’ve still got legs, right? Kick me, then.”

Ravs laughs. It lacks his usual charm and personality, but it doesn’t sound bogged down by pain. “No, no, I won’t do that. I’ve hurt you enough already.” 

“I, uh, pretty much deserved it. Why do you want this Vault so badly?”

“It’ll be just him and Teep in a hundred years guarding the Vaults,” Ravs whispers, leaning in to Arsenal. He adds, “Think about lonely that’d be.”

“Oh. Shit.” Arsenal facepalms. Ravs had a noble goal, and he’s shattered it. There’s nothing he can do to make it up to Ravs.

Ravs smiles, and Arsenal knows that things’ll be fine. “Don’t worry about it.” He waves a hand, wincing as it causes more blood to gush from an open gash. It trickles down his arm and off his elbow.

“So, is this a good point for me to stop watching and step in?” Rythian’s voice slices through the air.

Arsenal and Ravs turn to face him. He’s standing at the entrance of the room, equal parts chagrined, worried and upset. 

Okay, maybe things are  _ not _ fine.

Rythian teleports to Ravs’ side. He does take in Arsenal, but when he sees that nothing’s wrong, he turns his attention back to Ravs. He tuts at Ravs’ hands, inspecting them but not touching.

“I wasn’t here long enough to see what happened.” Rythian spawns a first aid kit, snapping the seal off and rummaging through the compartments for something to stop all the bleeding.

Ravs muffles the pained groan as Rythian sprays antiseptic onto the bloody bits. Arsenal takes the bandages Rythian gives him, expertly wrapping them all around Rav’s hands.

“So uh, did you see the kiss?” Arsenal ventures, as casually as he can be under the circumstances.

“Yes,” Rythian neutrally says, not looking directly at him.

“I’m sorry for kissing your hubby.” Arsenal is sincere about his apology. 

To his surprise, Rythian flushes. “Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.”

“Rythian, did you maybe enjoy it a little?” Ravs inquires with all the lightness of an innocent question.

Rythian refuses to respond. Ravs peers into his face. Rythian turns away, not letting him look. 

Grinning, Ravs turns to Arsenal. “He gets these little purple sparkles in his eyes whenever he’s feeling a strong emotion, or as he put it once: it’s because I’m horny.”

“That’s private information you’re telling, right now!” Rythian’s slightly strangled voice says.

“Is it because I’m a twunk?” Arsenal digs the knife a little further in. “And that’s why you can’t be mad at me either?”

“It’s Ravs’ decision if he wants to be mad at you or not, and I’ll support and respect his decision,” Rythian says, his voice pitched higher than usual.

“Even if I’ll have to retire early so my hands can heal?” Ravs nuzzles at Rythian’s neck. Rythian moves away from him, batting at him.

“You think you’ll have to leave the frigate?”

“For the time being. I’m not much use with my hands like this.”

“I’ll take over Ravs’ duties,” Arsenal volunteers.

“No need!” Ravs soothes. “My job’s hardly anything.” He turns to Rythian. “I’ll always be there for you, no matter what.”

Rythian says nothing to that, shaking his head. “We’ll still have to tell the others.”

“Ah, yes, that. But you’ll take care of that for me, won't you, darling?”

Rythian rolls his eyes. “We’ll deal with Arsenal using the Vault later.”

\--

The others react mostly positively to Arsenal’s new status as an immortal. Minty is one of the few who yells at him for about half an hour, then calms down, says that ‘he’s a right idiot’ and hugs him. Daltos doesn’t seem to mind, or Zylus. That appears to be the majority of opinions.

Teep avoids him for about two weeks before they approach him to talk. They’re not happy about his decision, but are willing to lend him a hand if it all gets to his head.

Lalnable wishes to study him, seeking to help Rythian and Teep’s conditions with his contributions gleaned from Arsenal’s unique state. Arsenal appreciates it, and will do the best he can to help.

Ravs retirement is the bigger problem on everyone’s minds. Ravs has always been a big presence on the frigate, one of the friendlier faces around. He’s like the heart of the crew. 

Arsenal is full of guilt for driving him to this. He doesn’t think he’s allowed to go to the goodbye party until Rav collects him from his own room.

“Here, a goodbye present.” Ravs presents him with a land deed on Dionysus. “This is a ranch from one of my clan’s holdings. I think you’ll find it useful for your kraggons.” Ravs winks, hugging him, ignoring all protests that he doesn’t deserve such a kind gift.

He’ll cash that in as soon as he’s able to, to avoid wasting Ravs’ generosity.

And life goes on as it does, for Arsenal. Everything doesn’t stay the same for long, though.

\--

\- / / NOW PLAYING ECHO LOG. / / -

Ravs: One hundred raw eridium barrels, all hooked up!

Teep: …

Ravs: Rythian’ll love my surprise gift to him. Even more so than the time I spent lovingly nursing him after he fell into that two day coma from testing Enderbane.

Teep: …

Ravs: You can’t talk me out of this, Teep. I’ve made up my mind a long time ago.

Teep: …

Ravs: Yes, my decision from five years ago still stands. I want to be immortal too.

Teep: …

Ravs: What do you mean it’ll suck? It’s going to be fun with me around.

Teep: …

Ravs: Hush, and go flick the switch.

Teep: …

Ravs: …

Teep: …

Ravs: Did it work?

Teep: …

Ravs: OW. WHY DID YOU STAB ME IN THE CHEST? I’M GOING TO HAVE TO ROLEPLAY THIS IN OUR BNB SESSION NOW! 

Teep: …

Ravs: Will you look at that? It’s closing itself faster than I can stick a band-aid on it. Never mind, whooshy saber versus saber blocking knife is canceled!

Teep: …

Ravs: I think burning away all that eridium’s still worth it. You can leave that last barrel— Rythian’s calling me. I’ll be right back.

Teep: …

Ravs: Go get me, and let’s get out of here. We can drop me off with Zoeya on the way back. I’m too good at being the camera man, if I don’t say so myself.

Teep: …

Ravs the rooster: Uwu?

Teep: …

Ravs the rooster: Bawk!

Teep: …

Ravs the rooster: OvO?

Teep: …

Ravs: Huh, I thought that there was one barrel left. Guess not. Teep?

Teep: …

Ravs the rooster: Uwu!

Ravs: ...No, it can’t have! That’s impossible.

\- / / NOW ENDING ECHO LOG. / / -


	8. part eight.

BebopVox stands by the foreboding gate, mopping their forehead with the back of their sleeve. Why he’d pick such a difficult to reach place to put his ranch on this bemuses BebopVox. The gate crackles, dropping its high voltage shield to let him inside.

The shuttle cabs insisted that this place didn’t exist, and if it did, they didn’t have permission to trespass. Thus, BebopVox had to spent the last half an hour hiking up the mountain after being dropped off at the base.

The sight is worth it. Ever since they infiltrated Ridgedog’s body, they’ve gained an appreciation for beauty, art and nature. Enough to fool most people, at any rate.

Dionysian highlands are spectacular, steep mountains and crevasses forming sprawling landscapes hidden by fog and clouds. Today is an overcast day, sunless and freezing.

BebopVox’s body didn’t need insulation, but they still preferred layering to stop awkward questions. Anyway, clothes are a comfort, and they get to pick out whatever outfits they want. It’s inconvenient that they couldn’t just slip into another one as they pleased compared to the old days but oh well.

The house that this retired Vault Hunter lives in is perched on top of a hill. The dirt road winds its way up to it. Fog swirls around BebopVox’s boots as they continue their trek.

Nobody else lives here, and the Vault Hunter preferred it that way. He’s self sufficient too, judging by the tractor parked on top of ridge, and the machinery in motion along the garden and fields. Rock sculptures line the road on either side, hulking, intimidating creations bearing the likeness of kraggons down to the eyes and jaws.

The ground shakes. BebopVox pauses, easing their eyes downwards. Dionysus isn’t prone to earthquakes, and geographical data indicates that this ranch isn’t near the ocean. Something else is causing it.

One of the nearby sculptures unfolds on the lawn, yawning. It becomes a four legged creature. It stretches, its joints groaning like boulders scraping against one another. A leg stamps the ground, sending into it the vibrations BebopVox felt earlier. The horns along its cheeks are several metres long, sturdy and glowing vividly. Its blackened hide gleams from the fog, condensation beading all over it.

It’s a kraggon, the size of a military truck.

It catches sight of BebopVox. Its jaws part to show off a red, lolling tongue and an orange lit maw, lava belching from the inside of its throat. The ground shudders as it bounds towards him. 

BebopVox considers their options. They have enough battery to fly into a tree but kraggon could easily knock it over if it’s pushy enough. It’s getting closer and closer.

BebopVox slides their hand into the inside of their coat. Fingers close around the gun holstered there; kraggon hide could be tough but they couldn’t withstand the destructive power of concentrated acid  _ and _ lightning. 

Plus, they’d like to test this little trophy they’d stolen from KirinDave’s stash. Boy, KirinDave is going to have their head for taking such a precious item.

“Arden! Down!” A commanding voice pitches over the hill.

The kraggon halts, panting, circling on the spot to retrace its steps. Its head dips, and the once familiar ‘burf’ it barks echoes all around BebopVox, eerily deep and bone-chilling.

“Ahoy there!” A lone figure climbs up over the hill. “Sorry about that!”

A second, slightly smaller but no less intimidating kraggon follows, head lowered to the ground to sniff it. This one lacks the horns but has a vicious ridge of spikes along its head, back and tail. 

“Arsenal!” BebopVox floats over, taking care to avoid the sniffing of Arden and Dick. “Not to worry! I can fly now, so they wouldn’t have posed a problem.”

“I dunno, they like to nip at the birds that annoy the bots.” Arsenal fondly pats both of the beasts who’ve taken to nosing him. He somehow avoids the large horns that could easily impale him in one move, and the spikes nuzzling his arm.

“How’s the ranch?” BebopVox glances around. This is their first time here since Arsenal sent an invitation.

“Good, great!” Arsenal dismisses both of the kraggons, who bound back down the hill to frolic in the fields. “They’ll dig out another field, and I’ll fill it in later.” He heads up towards the house. “Come on, I got some good tea I want to share with you.”

Arsenal’s home is cosy if cluttered. There’s a radio going, tuned into the regular music channel that plays in the city. Arsenal lowers the volume as he passes.

There’s almost nothing on display that speaks about his former Vault Hunting days, and BebopVox isn’t sure if Arsenal is willing to reminiscence.

Most didn’t, one they got to this stage in their life. Some just didn’t want the painful reminders, and others are all too happy to take the bait and ramble on for a few hours about the good old times. Some can’t speak, but dead people couldn’t.

There’s a lot of photos, carefully pasted into frames and hanging across one whole wall. Arsenal must have spent a long time gathering all of these relics. Now this, this speaks about how he could feel about the purpose of BebopVox’s visit.

Arsenal isn’t stupid or naive as to wonder if BebopVox is here to have ‘just a chat’ about the past. It’s been years since they met, and Arsenal still looks like he’s in his late twenties.

He’s smart about staying under the radar, and with those two enormous kraggons of his technically being classified as a potential threat to a city, he’d picked the perfect place to hide.

The timing however, could have been better. 

BebopVox sips at the tea Arsenal serves. It’s highland tea with a bit of butter mixed in. It’s unusual, and despite living for over half a century and more, BebopVox will never get tired of small surprises like this that manage to exist.

The Sham still rests on Arsenal’s belt, after all. Legendaries as aged as that shield fetched pretty prices on the antiques market. 

The curse attached to this particular one that Arsenal wears speaks a tale of surviving on one’s own luck, and guts.

BebopVox smiles, and pulls out a folder and lays it on the table. “I hope you don’t mind that this is more than a simple chat between old friends.”

Arsenal grins, all teeth. “Not at all. I had a feeling you’d be dropping by sooner or later, given how busy all the radio chatter is.”

\--

Nanosounds is expecting a visitor. As the current director of Flux Inc., she didn’t receive many that she looked forward to, or cleared her entire schedule. Her secretary and assistants may bemoan her lack of consideration, but she holds certain visits in more esteem than others.

“Show them upstairs, to my office,” She instructs, clicking the intercom off on desk when it lights up.

Her secretary might be wondering why someone so slippery as Ridgedog dropped by to see a little old mining operative such as herself. She chuckles at how protective her secretary is, lingering, before she nods to show that she can handle this.

Sirens like her didn’t often live long, especially ones that have lost their left arm. It’s a shame that Lalna isn’t here to tune hers. She could use his guidance, but alas, he’s not within reach at the moment.

Ridgedog remains where the secretary left them, standing on the purple carpet leading up to Nanosounds’ desk. They’re dressed like they’re going to a funeral, decked out in black coat, boots, shirt and hair. Black everything, really.

The hair is what gets to her the most. They’d always been a ginger orange. Black is realy not their colour. She conceals a chuckle, waving a hand towards a nearby chair.

Nanosounds' office overlooks Hecate, positioned in a space station that pumped fuels, metals, exports and just about everything from the planet to beyond. Eridium is one of its lesser known exports and imports, but Flux Inc. maintains a watertight client confidentiality, even within itself. 

The same rule doesn’t apply to Nanosounds, who likes to see what’s happening on every level. Nothing gets past her and one Will Strife. Right now, he’s away on a mission with Parvis, and there’s no telling when her best operative and field medic will return.

She steers her mental tangent back to Ridgedog. Ridgedog holds a small, gift wrapped box in their hands. They pass it to her with all the ceremony of a messenger returning from a weary journey.

Inside it is a blackened lump the size of a stress ball.

Nanosounds bursts into laughter. Trust Arsenal to put a smile on her face. He didn’t often give away the rocks that fell off his kraggons, preferring to collect them for some bizarre reason. Maybe he thinks if he collects enough of them, he could make his own kraggon.

She removes the lump. It gives off its own heat, as warm as a heat patch, rough and coarse like stalker hide. It goes next to the photo of her and shot of  _ The Blackrock’s  _ Vault Hunters.

Ridgedog is laughing silently, at her reaction. “So?”

“It’s wonderful. I’ll have to pass on a message. Perhaps I should visit.”

“I don’t think you could move up a mountain as you used to,” Ridgedog points out. 

If it was her past self they’re talking to, she’d be offended. But if her past self saw her right now, she’d understand that Ridgedog doesn’t mean any offense, and are understandably worried. 

She’s one of the last Vault Hunters left, and Vault Hunters are precious, in this day and age. Hence why she sent her best squad to accompany Will and Parvis to the frontlines. It might not be enough, which is why Ridgedog is finally paying her a visit.

Nanosounds lifts one, frail, wrinkled hand, the one that’s not covered in synthetic, tattooed skin, sighing. “We’ll see about that.”

Ridgedog shrugs, smiling. “Is this room secure?” Nanosounds shakes her head. Ridgedog nods, squinting. A few seconds later, they grin again. “It is now.”

Finding out that they’d actually been BebopVox the whole time and not a slimy, corporate worm had been a most pleasant surprise. She trusts BebopVox, and talks to them if only to annoy Xephos, who’s still maintaining tabs on the potential rogueness of an A.I. inhabiting a once human body.

“So, what news do you bring me?” Nanosounds sits down in her chair. Her joints ache if she stands for more than a few hours, a minor punishment for running around so much as a youngster.

“Cult’s on the move. Bandits are all wearing one emblem. Weapon technology is regressing and advancing as the corps try to snatch up the biggest licenses. Vaults are being claimed and opened, despite all our efforts. You know, the usual.”

“Show me the forbidden news.”

“As you command. Zylus got an extremely concerning package the other day, consisting of an eyeball in a jar. It’s all starry-eyed, if you catch my drift.” Ridgedog pushes an image at her, which is Zylus looking rather distressed as he holds up the jar. Next to him, straight-faced, Daltos is doing bunny ears above Zylus’ head. “The note in it says ‘here, for your collection’, plus another note to pass onto Lalnable.”

“I hope he keeps it safe, just in case the owner comes back for it. Any other news?”

“Nothing about reversing your condition yet, from Lalnable.”

“It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

“Lalnable insists that there has to be something that he can do. He’s not giving up yet, and is hoping Trottimus’ skin cultures will help. He also reminds you to refrain as much as possible from using your Siren powers, cautioning that it might further your condition.”

‘Oh, if only someone had told me that I’d end up moving like a three legged tortoise. Then maybe I shouldn’t have spawned that harbinger and saved all those lives! And ew, Trott can keep his cultures to himself.”

“Your stubbornness and dedication to the masses are the bane of my existence, is what he adds, and that’s it from it.”

“I’ll do my best to abide by my doctor’s wishes.” Nanosounds snorts. “But it’s nice of him to worry.”

“You have a message from your half-sister, Fives.”

“Not listening to it. Next.”

“This one’s from Ravs. He’s been dragged out of retirement by Teep in the hopes of stopping Rythian from destroying himself with Enderbane as he tries to save the universe all by himself, like an idiot.”

“Oh! That’s fantastic! You have no idea how hard it is to track down Rythian when he’s in one of his wanderer’s moods. Does he say where Rythian ran off to?”

“He says that if you’re interested in one last adventure, he wouldn’t mind if you slipped your guards, grabbed everyone else and met up at these coordinates. Wink wink.”

“Oh no, I’m scheduling a year long vacation for myself. How naughty of me!”

“Last one. This one’s from Lalna. He says Rythian’s dragging him into something really big. Something to do with the Vault of Vaults. Sorry about the short letter, but that’s all he has time for.”

“No wonder why I couldn’t ECHO him!” Nanosounds thumps her armrest. “The least he could do is ask if Will and I were up to the challenge as well.” She sniffs, a little upset that she’d been left out. Again.

“Are you going to Ravs and the others?”

“I have to, even if I have to admit my age and use a cane.” Nanosounds rises, getting to her feet as swiftly as her aged body allows. “The universe is going to destroy itself, and you expect me to sit here, twiddling my thumbs? Hell no.”

“Perfect. I was hoping you’d say that.” Ridgedog rises and holds a supportive arm out to her, a perfect gentlerobot.

Nanosounds smiles at them, and lets them lead her to where her friends await her.

\--

\- / / NOW PLAYING ECHO LOG. / / -

Rythian: I believe that the legendary obtained from the Vault of the Queen, Enderbane, has unique properties, even for an Eridian crafted weapon. For starters, its true appearance is that of a sword. It has plasma properties within the hilt...okay, it’s a gun sword. Sword gun? Gun sword.

I knocked myself out for two days when testing it. Unfortunately, it inflicted a strange burn on my hand from where I’d grabbed the blade in surprise. Missed my sci-fi Bunkers and Badasses session too, but I’ll catch up later.

The burn took twice as long to heal, defying my Eternal healing rate.

I think that this weapon is designed to be used on Eridian constructs, including people like myself. I’ll need to be very careful when and how I use this weapon. Maybe it can work on Guardians and Vault dwellers and bosses too. I have a bad idea, and I’m afraid to test it...once my hand gets better. Ravs is upset I’ve done something stupid again.

Teep, if I die, don’t let this weapon fall into the wrong hands. Junior will lead you to its place of hiding if I do fail. 

As a Vault Hunter, I have a job to finish.

\- / / NOW ENDING ECHO LOG. / / -

**Author's Note:**

> (with platonic love, the end)
> 
> thank you for making it to the very end of this very long ride! i pretty much said everything at the start, but there’s a couple of things left. 
> 
> first, as always, thank you to the peeps who contributed to this last piece: polishingopals, endragh, and siins.
> 
> secondly, thank you to you, the incredible reader. the blog’s seen a lot of support over the years, and for certain names to pop up repeatedly despite the erraticness of posts is fantastic! and to the people who’ve left many kudos and comments over the years. 
> 
> out of curiosity, please let me know in a comment how long it took you to finish reading this fic, and if there’s anything in particular you really enjoyed, yelled, shouted or peed yourself when you saw it. since this is my last major work for a while, i’d really appreciate some feelings and feedback (and crit, if you want to offer that too)!
> 
> see you all in the next fic, whenever that one’s done!


End file.
